The Chance We Never Had
by BellatrixLives
Summary: After escaping Winterfell (and the horrible Ramsey Bolton) Sansa sets out to find the last person who made her feel safe. Her first husband, Tyrion Lannister. Picks up after Sansa and Theon jump from the walls of Winterfell.
1. Chapter One

The snow cushions their fall, but not enough to prevent injury.

Sansa's knee twists painfully when they land, and she can't help but cry out. The shooting pain makes her vision prickle darkly at the edges, and she finds it difficult to draw breath.

After a few moments of panic, her chest loosens and she gasps, sucking as much frigid air into her lungs as she can manage.

Her eyes sting and tears threaten to spill, but she holds them back, refusing to feel anything more just yet.

Soon she takes in her surroundings, realizing that despite it all, she and Theon are still clinging to one another, hands clasped tightly.

His eyes are closed, scrunched together, and she can see he's in pain too.

Reluctantly he pulls his hand from hers, and tugs his glove off with his teeth.

Biting hard on the glove, he uses his now bare hand to force his right shoulder back into place.

Aside from the sickening _pop_ his joint makes, he doesn't make a sound; not so much as a whimper, and for the first time, Sansa truly wonders what Ramsey did to him.

Without speaking they climb to their feet, knowing they have to reach the woods beyond if they have any chance of escape.

Sansa's knee buckles under her weight, and she whimpers, trying to remain strong, and as quiet as Theon.

His right arm is useless at this point, so he does his best with his left to help support her, and they start stumbling towards the trees.

Their steps are inelegant and uneven, but determined.

They trudge forward through the deep mounds of snow, neither looking back; whether out of fear or defiance is a question they aren't ready to ask themselves.

They are mere feet from the edge of the tree line when someone steps out of the shadows in front them.

Sansa feels the bile rise in her throat and prays to the Seven she will be granted a quick death… but then she recognizes the young man in front of her.

"P—Podrick?" she rasps, hardly believing her own eyes.

"Yes, my Lady," he says, offering a stilted bow, as if he is as surprised as she by their encounter.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, taking half a step forward.

"I've been— we've been looking for you. To protect you."

She lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

 _Protect me? You're far too late._

"We," she repeats, her spinning mind catching up with what he said. "Who is 'we'? Is he—? Are you here with…?"

Podrick shakes his head no.

"I'm here with Brienne of Tarth. She was sworn to your mother. She promised to find you and keep you safe."

"That woman. From the Inn?"

"Yes, my Lady."

It isn't Podrick who speaks this time, but a great giant of a woman who steps out from behind a tree.

"Are you the ones who have been waiting for the candle to be lit?" Sansa asks.

"Yes, my Lady," Brienne nods, "and if you would allow me, I would like to get you to safety. You need to get out of the open."

Sansa glances at Theon, but his face is vacant, and she wonders how much of the conversation he's followed.

"Yes. Please help us," Sansa begs, not caring if she's making the wrong choice, because she knows any choice that isn't Ramsey is the better option.

Brienne and Podrick move swiftly, hurrying to get both Sansa and Theon out of sight from anyone who may be watching from the walls of Winterfell.

"Did anyone see you jump?" Brienne demands, and Sansa shakes her head no. "Does anyone know you are gone?"

"No, I don't think so. Theon is all but invisible around there, and I'm supposed to be locked in my room. No one but Theon comes to see me. Aside from Ramsey… and that isn't until late at night."

There is a look of sympathy in the other woman's eyes that Sansa does not want, so she looks away, refusing to be pitied, knowing that will make it real.

"I know you are probably in a lot of pain right now," Brienne says, "that was quite a fall, but I really must insist we get moving. The Boltons are preoccupied right now, but it was a more of a slaughter than a battle. I don't know how much time we have until they'll notice you're missing."

"I'm fine," Sansa insists. "Get us out of here."

They ride nonstop well into the night.

There are only two horses, so Theon rides behind Podrick, and Sansa sits in front of Brienne.

She wishes they weren't on separate horses.

Despite how much resentment she still holds for Theon and his betrayal, the fact that he saved her life makes her more inclined to not hate him entirely, and as Ramsey pointed out, he is the closest thing she has to family right now.

Far too often during their journey the woman, Brienne, asks how Sansa is doing, and she always responds that she is fine.

Truthfully, the uneven terrain and galloping horse are jostling her injured knee almost more than she can bear.

She remains silent, biting the inside of her cheek.

Once the sun sets and it grows dark the pain is easier to ignore; she's had a lot of practice in the recent weeks.

They ride as far as the light of the moon will allow them before it slips behind the clouds, leaving them in darkness. Only then do they stop to make camp.

"I don't think they'll expect for you to have made it so far, Lady Sansa," Brienne tells her over their small campfire. "Even so, as soon as dawn breaks I want us to move on."

Sansa nods vaguely, scanning the area around them, not trusting the shadows. She half expects Ramsey to spring from them and drag her by the hair all the way back to Winterfell.

Sitting far away from the warmth of the fire, Theon sits huddled and shaking with his arms wrapped around his legs.

He hasn't said a word since their jump.

Podrick is rubbing down the horses, and every so often when he thinks she isn't looking, he'll shoot Sansa a speculative glance.

"Where are you taking me?" Sansa asks.

"Somewhere safe, my Lady," Brienne swears. "I just haven't decided where that is yet."

"Nowhere is safe."

"Don't you have any more family you can turn to?"

"All of my family is dead. And I would not call upon any of our old allies, for fear of betrayal… or of bringing the wrath of the Lannister's or the Bolton's down upon them."

"Is there somewhere you like us to take you, my Lady?" Brienne asks, clearly needing a suggestion.

Sansa stares into the flames, trying to remember the last time she felt safe.

They could return to the Erie and wait for Littlefinger, but after what he abandoned her to, Sansa doesn't know if she could face him without attacking him.

It's not even as if she felt safe with him, she felt protected, yes, but Sansa's not sure it's possible to ever feel _safe_ around a someone who has ten different ways to kill every man in the room if the need should arise.

Jon is a possibility, but his duty to the Watch would always come first if he were to take his vows seriously. She doesn't want to put him in jeopardy.

She has no idea where Bran and Rickon could be, or even of where to begin looking.

There is one person she recalls making her feel safe… if only for a moment or two at a time. As much as was possible anyway.

"I want you to take me to my husband," she says suddenly.

"My Lady?" Brienne questions, confused. "We just got you away from the Boltons. Why in the seven hells would you want to go back?"

"I didn't say anything about the Boltons. I said _take me to my husband._ I was a married woman already when I was shipped off to Ramsey Bolton, which means that our ceremony was not binding."

Both Podrick and Theon look up to stare at her.

"Are you speaking of the— of Lord Tyrion?" Brienne asks.

Sansa nods.

"I was under the impression that you and Lord Tyrion were not… that you had not…?" Podrick fumbles.

"Consummated?" she supplies.

"Yes, that. Don't you have to in order to be bound?"

"Do you really think Tyrion shared everything that happened between us with you? Sansa snips.

She slips into defensiveness, knowing that Podrick is right, but refusing to admit to anyone that she was in fact still a virgin when Ramsey took her.

Podrick blushes.

"Even so," Brienne continues, "no one knows where Tyrion Lannister is. He escaped from King's Landing and disappeared into thin air."

"Not quite. I know where he is," Sansa reveals. "I was at Littlefinger's side for months, and I picked up quite a lot of the information he thought he was hiding from me. I know for a fact that it was Lord Varys that helped Tyrion escape from King's Landing, and I know where he took him."

Podrick looks so hopeful.

"He's in Essos."

Pod's face falls.

"Essos?" he clarifies. "How are we supposed to get across the narrow sea?"

At this Sansa falls silent; she doesn't have any idea. She hadn't planned past the spur of the moment jump from the wall.

"Is that truly what you wish, Lady Sansa?" Brienne asks after a long stretch of silence. "To be reunited with Lord Tyrion?"

 _Everyone I know and love is gone or out of reach. I have nothing… no one… except for the one person who always came to my rescue in King's Landing._

"Yes," she says firmly, "that's what I want."

 _Whether or not Tyrion wants to be reunited with his Northern Ice Queen wife is another matter..._

When she thinks of all the times he showed her kindness, or tried to help her, Sansa feels a trickle of shame down her spine.

Tyrion had always been kind to her, always come to her defense, even before he knew they were to be married. All that he did, he did with no motive other than that he is a good person.

Sansa regrets she didn't see it sooner.

"It's settled then," Brienne announces, pulling Sansa from her thoughts. "We're going to Essos."

XxXxX

The next morning, as soon as the sun begins to spread fingers of light over the horizon, they are on the move.

They head for the river, discovering luck is with them. Two hundred yards from the river is a hut that seems to have burnt down weeks ago.

"Raiders," Podrick sighs, shaking his head.

"There loss is our gain," Brienne says somberly, motioning them all towards the riverbank.

There, covered in brush and branches, is a small fishing boat.

It's cramped, but all four of them are able to fit.

Pod sits at the front of the boat, Brienne in the middle so she can row, leaving Sansa and Theon to sit at the back side by side.

Logically, Sansa knows she is in the best position; Theon is radiating body heat, and sheltering her from the icy breeze blowing off the water. That doesn't prevent her from jumping, or shifting uncomfortably every time their thighs brush.

Several times she has to close her eyes and remind herself over and over that it is Theon next to her _not_ Ramsey.

The river takes them all the way to White Harbor, putting at least a day and a half head start between them and the Bolton riders.

"Theon?" Sansa asks softly as the harbor comes into view. "Would you like to go home?"

Theon shakes nervously and looks at her, wondering if this is some kind of trick.

Sansa raises her hand and points across the water to a ship flying the Greyjoy colors.

For the first time since right before they jumped off the wall, Sansa sees life return to Theon's eyes.

"B-But you need me, d-don't you?" he asks, speaking for the first time on their journey.

Sansa thinks over her words carefully.

"I do," she agrees. "I need you to return home and be Theon Greyjoy. I need you to remember my mercy, because one day I will return and reclaim my home, and I will need you then."

Theon's lip trembles, and he nods.

"I am in your debt, m-my lady."

Once they dock their small fishing boat, they waste no time. Sansa swallows her memories and gives Theon a quick hug.

Podrick escorts Theon to the Greyjoy fishing boat, while Brienne asks some questions around the harbor.

Sansa follows close to Brienne, keeping her hood drawn up and her head down.

Eventually, Brienne finds the information she'd been looking for. One of her father's boats will be departing White Harbor in the morning, heading for Tarth loaded down with pelts and dried goods for the winter.

"We can gain passage with them, my lady," Brienne explains. "Then we can take one of my father's other boats and set out to Essos."

"You're sure he'll just give you a boat?" Sansa asks, skeptical.

"I'm an only child, my lady. My father dotes on me," she admits, a slight flush to her cheeks. "After all, he did help to achieve my dream of being a knight… even if it was a short-lived dream. He funded my training, purchased my sword and armor… he'll help us."

"He sounds like a great man."

"He is that, my lady."

Podrick catches up to them shortly after that, and books a room at an inn. He only books one, though it does have two beds. The most convenient aspect though, is that it is off a hallway that accesses the back stairs, allowing them to come and go unnoticed.

They spend the day cooped up in the tiny room, and while she's used to prison cells by now, Sansa can't hide her discomfort.

Brienne tries to reassure her that she'll have plenty of room to roam about on the boat, but Sansa knows she won't breath freely until she is on the sea and beyond Ramsey's grasp.

Brienne and Podrick take turns watching the door through the night, refusing Sansa's help, insisting she get some rest.

She can't help but think how wasted their energy is; she can't sleep anyway.

When the dawn light illuminates their room, Sansa is the first one on her feet, preparing for their departure.

Brienne is trying to get Sansa to eat something when they hear the commotion downstairs.

They can't be sure what the problem is, but they don't stay to find out, instead slinking down the back stairs and making their way to the waiting boat bound for Tarth.

Once on the boat, Sansa stands holding onto the rail with white knuckles staring at shore, her grip only relaxing once they can no longer see land.

"You're free of him, my Lady," Brienne says quietly, she's standing right beside Sansa and can see how the girl's shoulders relax the further out to sea they get. "He will never lay another finger on you again."

For the first time in she's not even sure how long, Sansa feels a tiny bud of hope blossom in her stomach. She gives Brienne a tiny smile and turns her attention back to the water.

She's on her way.

She just hopes her husband will accept her.


	2. Chapter Two

"My Lady, are sure you wish to wait in line with… these people?" Brienne asks Sansa quietly. "Surely if you explain who you are to one of these guards, they will take you to the front of the queue."

Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick are all standing huddled together at the end of a long line of supplicants outside of the Great Pyramid in Meereen.

The trip from White Harbor to Tarth, and then Tarth to Meereen had taken them just under a month to complete. Standing here now, though, about to see Tyrion again for the first time in almost two years, Sansa almost wishes the journey had taken longer.

"I don't want to draw attention to myself," Sansa insists. "The Lannisters and the Boltons are both after me now. Let's just wait, and then we'll be the last ones seen for the day. There will be fewer in the throne room."

"How did the— Lord Tyrion end up in charge of Meereen?" Brienne wonders aloud.

"I heard a few people talking about the Dragon Queen flying off, supposedly on some secret emissary mission? I don't know," Pod explains. "I think he's hand of the Queen, and is just managing while she's gone."

" _You_ speak Valyrian?" Brienne asks, disbelievingly.

"A bit. I picked it up from a girl in King's Landing."

"Was she one of Littlefinger's?"

Sansa stops listening to them, Littlefinger's name enough on it's own to turn her stomach.

As if she didn't have enough on her mind.

 _What if he turns me away? What if he tells the truth about the marriage not being consummated? What if he sends me back to Ramsey?_

 _No… even if he doesn't want me, he wouldn't send me back to that monster._

She is thankful for the long wait before them, it gives her time to collect herself and prepare.

 _He won't send me away,_ she tells herself. _He'll protect me._

xXx

Tyrion tries hard to keep his expression calm and collected, and to fight the twitch in his hand, aching to be holding a goblet of wine.

"Our home was raided," Missandei translates for the woman kneeling before Tyrion. "We offered water to the patrolling unsullied, and the Sons of the Harpy destroyed our home."

"We thank you for your kindness to the soldiers," Tyrion tells her, pausing for Missandei to translate his words. "We are sorry for all injustices you have faced, and wish to repay your kindness."

The haggard middle-aged woman looks up hopefully.

"We shall repay you for all damages sustained, and place you and your family in temporary housing until we can fix your home," he continues.

Her "thank you" needs no translation.

"How many are left?" he asks, positive they must be close to done.

"Just one, my Lord," Missandei tells him.

She looks over the list on the parchment she holds, brows furrowing.

"Another farmer, or ex-slave coming to tell me how much they hate me and wish for the Queen to return?"

"She would not give her name," Missandei explains, "she would only say that she is… your wife."

The stone doors of the throne room creak open and Tyrion is on his feet without realizing it, descending the steps towards the three newcomers.

He's not sure he trusts his eyes. Surely there must be some mistake?

But no… Standing before him, overdressed for Meereen's heat in northern clothing, is his wife, as tall and beautiful as ever.

 _Not my wife,_ he thinks suddenly, recalling the rumor he heard of her being married off to Roose Bolton's bastard.

Sansa kneels before him and lowers her hood, revealing her lustrous red hair, and gives him a nervous smile.

"My Lord husband," she says softly, her voice trembling.

"How—? What are you doing here?" Tyrion asks.

He takes a step closer, reaching his hand out to cup her cheek, reassuring himself she is real and not a hallucination brought on by twelve hours of sobriety.

She jumps under his touch but doesn't pull away, and the warmth of her skin assures him that she is indeed here with him.

"I escaped from… R—Ramsey," she stumbles over the name, flinching.

When Tyrion can't find his words, Sansa continues talking.

"Littlefinger kidnapped me from King's Landing. He sold me to the Boltons, and Roose married me to his son R—Ramsey. I escaped though, and Brienne and Pod found me."

For the first time, Tyrion looks to Sansa's companions and is thrilled to see Podrick.

"I explained that my marriage to… to _him_ wasn't binding. That despite what most people thought, you and I _had_ c—consummated. After they knew the truth, Brienne and Pod helped me get here."

Whatever Tyrion had expected when he realized Sansa was truly here, it certainly wasn't this.

 _Who is this Ramsey that even his name causes her to tremble? How terrible was he that it sent her running back to me of all people?_

Sansa's big blue eyes are begging him not to call her out on her lie. If he agrees and says they did consummate their marriage then, by the laws of men, it frees her from this Ramsey Bolton.

 _But it ties her to me._

"I understand if you wish for me to go, my Lord," Sansa says dropping her head. "I know I am asking you to forgive a lot. No one would deny that it is your right to send me away. I know that I am… that I have been spoiled by the touch of another."

She's giving him an out, he realizes. She thinks his silence is a refusal.

Without pausing to worry about consequences, Tyrion takes both of Sansa's hands in his.

"I would never send you away, and there is nothing to forgive," he tells her. "You are my wife, and in the eyes of Gods and Men I swear to protect you. While I can never undo the tragedies you've endured, I will spend the rest of my days trying to make up for them."

Grateful tears slide down Sansa's face and she mouths a wordless thank you to him before wiping away the wetness on her face.

Tyrion steps around Sansa and walks to Podrick, he takes the young man's extended hand and shakes it heartily.

"Thank you, Pod," he tells the boy, "for returning my wife to me. I am so happy to see you safe and well."

"It's great to see you too, my Lord," Pod beams.

Podrick introduces Tyrion to Sansa's sworn sword, Lady Brienne.

"Lady Brienne, I thank you for protecting my wife when I could not."

"Just Brienne is fine," she corrects, looking down at him suspiciously.

"Missandei," Tyrion calls, turning back to see her and Grey Worm looking at the scene unfolding in disbelief, "could you find chambers for my wife's travelling companions? On the same floor as mine, please."

Missandei nods and instructs Podrick and Brienne to follow her. Both of them look to Sansa before moving, and she gives them a small nod.

They leave then, though Brienne is still clearly reluctant to go.

"Grey Worm, could you please find someone to deliver a bath and hot water to my room? I'm sure Lady Sansa would like to relax after her tiring journey."

Grey Worm leaves them, shooing the other guards away as well, leaving just Sansa and Tyrion in the throne room.

Sansa is still kneeling in the middle of the room, he eyes downcast.

Tyrion offers her his hand to help her up.

"You do look like you could use some rest," he says softly.

Sansa stretches out her own shaky hand and accepts his help.

"Thank you."

"We can talk later," he promises, "I just have one question to ask you now."

She looks down at him, waiting.

"Why are you really here?" Tyrion asks.

"I have no where else to go."

Tyrion escorts her to his room ( _our room?)_ and leaves her alone to enjoy her bath.

His chambers are large, and wonderfully bright. Sansa steps out onto the balcony and takes a moment to bask in the sun.

 _It's hard to believe in winter in a place like this_ , she thinks.

There is a huge weight off of her chest, and she can hardly believe her luck. Part of her didn't believe Tyrion would accept her.

 _He has enough of a target on his back without me adding to it._

She's not sure why he agreed to her ruse. Sansa wonders if it was out of pity, or perhaps desire? She knows she is a pretty girl, and while the thought of being touched by a man turns her stomach, Sansa trusts Tyrion not to be cruel.

 _Whatever he wants I'll give him_ , she swears. _Anything is better than Ramsey._

After leaving his newly rediscovered wife in his chambers to freshen up, Tyrion scours the Great Pyramid seeking Varys.

He finally finds him in the library.

"I trust one of your little birds has already told you the news?" Tyrion asks, sliding into a chair beside Lord Varys.

"What news is that?" Varys asks, peering over the op of his book.

"I'm shocked," Tyrion admits, "I'm truly shocked. I mean this is massive, to think—"

"Are you going to tell me, or just continue to interrupt my reading?"

"My wife is here."

Varys closes his book and shoots Tyrion a skeptical eyebrow.

" _You_ don't have a wife," Varys counters. "Your father annulled your first marriage, and your second wife was married to another after you failed to consummate."

"Oh, didn't I tell you we did consummate?" Tyrion asks casually.

"You told me for a fact that you did not."

"And I'm telling you, for a fact, that Sansa Stark appeared in the throne room less than an hour ago, wishing for me to corroborate her story that we _did_ consummate our marriage, meaning that her second marriage is in fact _not_ legally binding."

It's not often that someone manages to render the king of whispers silent, and Tyrion must admit that he enjoys the look of shock on Lord Varys' face.

"Are you telling me that Sansa Stark ran away from her childhood home to come find you?"

"Don't sound so shocked," Tyrion says, feigning offense. "I am quite the catch. A penniless dwarf on the run from the most powerful family in Westeros for the murder of a king."

"Truly though," Varys continues, ignoring him, "why is she here?"

Dropping the levity, Tyrion sighs sadly.

"All I know is that she told me she had nowhere else to go. And that she can't seem to say that boy Ramsey's name without choking on it."

"Yes, my little birds told me horrible stories about Ramsey. He is a sadist."

"He must have put her through hell if it sent her running to _me_ ," Tyrion says sadly.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it has more to do with the fact that you have been the only person to show that girl a scrap of kindness in years. I think she trusts you."

 _That's a sobering thought. Who trusts the drunken imp?_

"What should I do?" Tyrion asks.

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"Do you wish to be married to the Stark girl?" Varys presses.

"I hardly know her."

"Maybe, but you know a lot about her. She comes from an ancient and noble family, she's beautiful, she's quite clever, she has to be or she'd never have survived King's Landing, and she is clearly resourceful or she'd never have made it here," Varys lists. " _She_ is quite the catch if you ask me."

Tyrion nods his head slightly, not sure what to say.

"She came to you," Varys needlessly reminds him. "Are you going to send her away?"

"Of course not!"

"Then I think you have your answer. Congratulations, you're a married man."

Tyrion leaves Varys in the library and heads back to his chambers feeling more confused than before.

He knocks politely on the door, not wishing to intrude on her if she is still in her bath.

"Come in," she calls softly.

When he enters, Tyrion doesn't immediately see her. She's standing on the balcony staring out over the city.

She's finished her bath and has abandoned her northern clothes, and now she is wearing a gauzy blue robe.

Tyrion tries to ignore the way the robe clings to her wet skin, or the fact that the water renders the material practically see-through.

"Sansa?"

She turns to face him and he invites her to come in and sit with him. He pours two cups of wine and offers her one.

"Oh, you don't drink it, do you?" he remembers. "Would you like some juice, or—"

"Thank you, no," she says taking the cup. "I've grown more appreciative of wine."

Tyrion takes a seat in the wooden chair across from her and sips at his drink, more because he's not sure what to say than out of desire for wine.

"I can't express how grateful I am that you didn't send me away," Sansa finally says. "And thank you for backing me up, and not revealing my lie about… about us."

"I once swore that you were under my protection, Sansa, and I failed you. I wouldn't send you away."

"I don't blame you for that," she insists, "any of it. You couldn't have stopped it. Littlefinger planned everything. He killed Joffrey, you know, and though he didn't admit it, I think he always planned for you to take the fall."

" _Littlefinger_ ," Tyrion growls. "He always was a self-serving bastard."

"I always hoped that you knew I had no part in it. I never wished you harm."

Her cheeks flush brightly at this admission, and Tyrion realizes just how pale she is.

"I know," he assures her, "I never suspected you. I worried about you, though probably not as much as I should have, I admit. I was a bit preoccupied with wondering if I was going to be sentenced to death by my own father."

"Understandable," she nods, gracing him with a small smirk.

"You said you had nowhere else to go?"

"Almost all of my family is dead, and those that may be still alive, I have no idea where they could be. My so-called allies cannot be trusted. Those who don't wish to kill me want to sell me," she pauses, sucking in a deep breath. "The last time I felt safe was with you."

Sansa's cheeks burn even brighter than before, but this time Tyrion hardly notices, too preoccupied by the strange feeling in his chest.

 _Pride,_ his mind supplies.

Setting her wine down, Sansa slips out of her chair and once more settles onto her knees before him. She takes his hands and looks up at him earnestly.

"I know that I'm a liability," she sighs, "that you have enough on your plate without having to worry about me, but I promise if you protect me I will repay you. I know your Dragon Queen plans to cross the narrow sea and conquer the Seven Kingdoms. When she does, the North is ours. I will bear your children, and they will rule the North _and_ Casterly Rock."

Tyrion can't believe what she's offering him. She's ready to give him herself and her birthright, and all he has to do is protect her? Something a husband should do anyways.

"Sansa… that is quite a lot you're offering. You are prepared to give so much, and yet ask for so little."

"There is one other thing I want," she says suddenly, her bright eyes growing dark and dangerous.

"Name it."

"I want Ramsey Bolton's head."


	3. Chapter Three

Sansa meant every word she told him.

She will give herself to Tyrion. She will give him children. She will even give him the North. All he has to do is give her Ramsey's head.

"I cannot begin to fathom what he put you through, but I will do my best to give you his head," Tyrion swears, "but I ask for nothing in return."

"You don't have to ask," Sansa says, standing up. "You're my husband."

She turns away from him so he can't see how badly her hands are shaking as she attempts to untie her robe.

 _You must,_ she tells herself. _You must secure your position here._

Her stomach rolls, and she wishes she hadn't accepted the wine. She thought it would help her courage.

Finally she manages to untie the blasted knot on her robe, and before she can overthink her decision, Sansa drops the garment at her feet leaving herself completely bare.

She hears his sharp intake of breath, and she prays to the old gods and the new that she was right about him, and that he will be gentler than Ramsey ever was.

Sansa turns expecting to see the terrifying darkness of lust in his eyes, and instead finds Tyrion staring at her wearing an expression of overwhelming sadness.

"My Lord?" she questions softly.

Tyrion gets out of his chair and approaches her. He reaches out to her and she reflexively braces for pain.

His fingers glide across her hip so softly she questions whether he is truly touching her.

"Oh, Sansa," he breathes, so quietly she has to strain to hear. "What did he do to you?"

It's then she realizes Tyrion is tracing the outline of one of her many, many bruises.

She stiffens self-consciously.

"We can put out the candles if it is easier for you not to see me during," she offers.

Tyrion bends down to collect her robe.

"You owe me _nothing_ ," he swears, passing her the garment. "I will not ask this of you."

"As I said, my Lord, you are my husband. You need not ask."

"You're not even comfortable calling me by my name, perhaps we should wait before rushing into this."

"Tyrion," Sansa says suddenly, "we—we've been married for almost three years. I hardly think this is rushing."

"You can't honestly be _that_ attracted to me? Why the rush? Do you truly want children that badly?"

Sansa looks around frantically, clearly unsure how to answer.

"Oh…." His face grows even sadder. "I promise I'm not going to change my mind, Sansa. I will take care of you no matter what, you needn't have my child growing in you to secure your place."

She hesitates before slipping back into her robe, leaving the front untied.

Sansa kneels down to Tyrion's level and studies him questioningly.

"Are you sure you do not wish to consummate our union tonight?" she asks.

"I'm sure."

"Is it because of… do you not find me desirable?"

Tyrion laughs.

"My dear, you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, and I've travelled both Westeros and Essos. Desire is not the problem."

"Then what is it?" she presses.

"When we married, neither of us had a choice in the matter. We spent time together, sure, but we both know we weren't truly open with each other. We've been given this second chance, one where we _do_ have a choice. I'm simply asking for you to allow me to get to know you. The _real_ you."

 _He's not expecting to find love, is he?_ She wonders.

Sansa never considered the possibility that Tyrion would want anything else from her. She promised him the North and her body…

 _Can I give him my mind?_

She recalls her wedding night with Ramsey, who never asked her for anything, always just taking and taking.

"I suppose we can give it a try."

Tyrion smiles happily, and pats her hand before leaving to call for their dinner.

Sansa closes her robe and ties it shut tightly, hands shaking more now than when she revealed herself.

She had prepared to give herself to him as a sign of her commitment and gratitude. Sansa hadn't been excited at the prospect; in her experiences sex is not something that is fun for the woman, or at least not for her.

No one had ever truly prepared her for what it meant to submit to your husband's desires. She understood the mechanics, the differences between men and women, and what went where. She understood that _some_ women even found pleasure in the act, though she isn't sure how.

What she can't understand is how anyone can stand the invasiveness of it? Had she truly known what sex would be like she would have fought tooth and nail against ever being married.

Taking several relaxing breaths she tries to remind herself that she reconciled with having to submit to Tyrion's desires. While she appreciates this small reprieve he's granted her, she knows sooner or later she'll have to perform her _wifely duties_.

As much as it pains her to admit it, she knows that sooner is better. Despite Tyrion's promises, she knows she will not truly be safe until she is carrying his son.

Tyrion collapses against the door once in the hallway, his entire body shaking with rage. In this moment he wants nothing more than to set sail to Westeros, ride through the gates of Winterfell, and personally remove Ramsey Bolton's head from his shoulders.

His hands ball into tight fists and he resists the urge to punch the wall, logically knowing it will do no good.

He can't quell the anger and sickness rising within him, though, and solemnly vows that he will see that twisted son of a bitch dead.

 _What has she endured in our time apart?_

He wonders, but he has an idea; the marks all over her body were like a map of the tortures she has been submitted too. It had taken all of his self-control not to let his anger consume him right then as she stood before him, but he hadn't wanted to scare her.

Her porcelain skin, once unblemished, is mottled with purple, green, and yellow bruises. Her throat, which was hidden behind her northern clothing earlier, had finger shaped marks encircling it.

Worst of all, at least of what he noticed so far, were the three vertical lines cut into her abdomen. Just above her nest of curls there were three lines clearly carved into her with a knife, much too precise to have been from anything else.

The first cut has already scarred, the second is almost completely healed and will also scar, while the third is angry and red, looking much more fresh than the others.

 _She must be terrified of being returned to Ramsey… which is why she so desperately offered herself up._

Tyrion would be lying if he said he didn't desire the girl, he has ever since he first learned they were to be married, but beyond that, and especially now, he wants to protect her.

The last thing she needs after all she has been submitted to is to be forced to submit to him as well.

 _I will keep my promise; I will not share her bed until she wants me to. Until she_ truly _wants me to… not just because she fears for her safety and wishes to secure her place._

Taking several deep breaths, trying to at least mask his anger, Tyrion finally stands back up and sets out to fetch dinner for he and his wife.

By the time Tyrion returns, Sansa has dressed herself in a night shift and is brushing out her wet hair. She jumps when the door swings open, and silently curses herself for being so skittish.

After inquiring that she is decent, Tyrion leads Brienne, Podrick, and a servant with a tray.

Sansa self-consciously adjusts the neckline of her gown, and rearranges her hair to conceal the bruising on her neck.

"I thought you might be more comfortable with your companions joining us," Tyrion explains as they all sit down to eat. "And I must admit I am eager to hear of your journey here."

Sansa nods and gives a slight, half-smile, but lets Brienne and Pod do all the talking.

She picks at her food, hardly tasting anything, as she listens to them chat. She's glad to be so far from Westeros, but all the talk of their journey still makes her anxious. All the feelings of worry and fear she had that they would not escape rise up inside her, bubbling just below the surface.

"So your two younger brothers are still alive?" Tyrion asks, after Brienne explains about Theon's part in the escape.

Sansa panics.

"We don't know for sure," she rushes, "just because he said so, doesn't mean he was telling the truth. Or… or that they didn't die while on the run."

"We must hold out hope, my lady," Tyrion tells her softly. "They may be out there still, and if they are we will find them and bring them home to you."

He reaches out and pats the back of her hand.

Sansa's brows scrunch in confusion staring at Tyrion's earnest expression.

She thought for sure he would be unhappy with the news of her younger brothers' survival. After all, they could challenge any claim her children will have to the North.

Sansa isn't sure what angle Tyrion is playing at, so she just thanks him softly, and returns to staring down at her plate.

He listens raptly as Pod tells of their journey down river to White Harbor, and of how they managed to catch a ride to Tarth.

"Your father just gave you a boat to set sail to Essos?" Tyrion questions Brienne disbelievingly.

"I'm an only child, my father has always done whatever he can for me," she says simply.

"Then I am forever grateful to your father for assisting in returning my wife to me."

When at last the meal draws to a close, Pod grasps Sansa's hand and wishes her a good night before wrapping Tyrion in a massive hug.

"It's so good to see you again, my lord."

"Aye, I am happy our paths have crossed again. And I will be forever in your debt for helping Sansa."

Brienne lingers beside Sansa, whispering only loud enough for her to hear.

"My room is just five down from yours, if you need _anything_ do not hesitate. If you change your mind, we can leave this place at a moment's notice. You heard my father; you will always be safe on Tarth."

"Thank you," Sansa tells her sincerely, "but I think things will work out for the best."

Brienne nods softly, and bids her goodnight.

When it is once more just Tyrion and Sansa, Sansa feels unsure. She doesn't know what to say or do.

She really hadn't considered much interaction between them other than sex. She has no idea what to say to him.

Tyrion breaks the silence.

"I think it is time you get some rest, you've had a long journey."

He gestures her towards the bed, but he himself begins making camp on a large lounge chair, and Sansa is reminded of their wedding night.

"You don't have to," she says, " the bed is more than big enough for the both of us."

She tries to sound confident, but the tremor in her voice reveals her nervousness.

"We can discuss arrangements later, this will do fine for tonight," he insists.

Sansa bites her lip, but nods and retreats to bed.

Tyrion can't sleep.

He can hear her, barely ten feet away, breathing and sighing in her sleep. He's not sure why that's such a distraction, but it haunts him and keeps his mind alert.

He's not sure how much time passes before her nightmares begin.

 _One hour? Two?_

Sansa starts whimpering in her sleep, and he feels his heart being twisted. He wants to comfort her, but doesn't wish to frighten her further.

Then the whimpers shift to begging and his heart is all but pulled from his chest.

"No, no, no," she murmurs, "please… please don't…"

Tyrion gets out of his makeshift bed and carefully climbs onto the mattress with Sansa.

"Shh," he coos quietly, his fingers brushing her cheek softly. "It's just a bad dream. You're safe now."

Sansa sits up abruptly, looking around her strange surroundings wildly.

"It's okay," Tyrion says, drawing her attention. "You were having a nightmare."

"That happens when you live one," she replies.

"Try to get some more rest."

Tyrion shifts to climb out of the bed, but Sansa grabs his wrist to stop him.

"Please don't leave me?" she begs, hating her weakness.

Tyrion hesitates, not wishing to impose himself on her, but he can't say no to the sorrow in her eyes.

"I won't," he promises. "I won't."

He sits back against the headboard and finds himself in shock as Sansa rests her head in his lap.

Tyrion recovers quickly enough, and begins to run his hand through her hair and hum.

It's the first night in as long as she can remember that Sansa has a decent sleep.


	4. Chapter Four

Over the next few days Sansa and Tyrion fall into a pattern.

Sansa wakes up in their bed alone, Tyrion already gone for the day, off to run the city.

She has breakfast alone in her chambers, and then spends the morning exploring the Great Pyramid.

Brienne tried to warn her against wandering around unaccompanied, but Sansa waived her worries away. She couldn't find the words to explain that nothing this building has to offer could be scarier than that which she faced at the hands of Ramsey.

Lunchtime is spent on a great balcony overlooking the city with Brienne and Pod joining her. Brienne fills Sansa in about all she's learned of the Dragon Queen and the Unsullied, while Pod stuffs his face, overjoyed with the delicacies Meereen has to offer.

Sansa spends the rest of the afternoon in her chambers sewing herself clothing more fitted to her new climate.

Tyrion arrives just in time to have dinner with her, and tries very hard to draw her into conversation, but she can't seem to let herself open up.

He tries so very hard to draw her out, and Sansa can see that. He asks her questions about her day, her sewing, questions about whether her mother taught her or if it was her Septa. She attempts to open up, but the words always die in her throat.

The disappointment in his eyes hits her like a physical blow, and each day her panic grows.

 _What if I can't open up to him? What if he gets bored of me?_

When it is time to sleep, she goes to the bed and he to the couch. Yet every night he is right there beside her to save her from her nightmares and sing her back to sleep.

By morning he is gone again, leaving her to wonder if perhaps she dreamt it.

 _Maybe Ramsey broke me more than I know._

Tyrion doesn't know what to do.

He's doing everything he can to keep Meereen from falling to ruins while Daenerys is missing. He's doing all he can to keep spirits high in the Great Pyramid. He's also doing all knows to do to draw his wife out of her shell.

He feels like he is drowning.

Every time he feels like he gains a step forward with Sansa, she throws up her walls and takes two more steps back.

Tyrion understands her hesitation and he doesn't want to force her into any situation she is uncomfortable with, she's had enough of that, but he wishes she would at least talk to him.

Anything beyond a two or three word answer he would consider a victory.

Honestly, he's finding the time he feels closest to her is in the middle of the night, after one of her nightmares.

When she startles awake her eyes are so wide and unguarded. All her hesitations disappear as she asks him to stay with her.

The stiff guardedness in her demeanor is gone as she rests her head in his lap; her whole body relaxing as he sings and plays with her hair.

He lives for those moments, and despises himself for it. Tyrion feels dirty enjoying that time with her, knowing it is only born from her past traumas.

A week passes since she first arrived, and Tyrion feels no closer to cracking her layer of courtesies than he did when they first married in King's Landing.

Tyrion lies awake on the couch, waiting, knowing before long she will be crying out. His guilt festers as his fingers twitch, longing to caress her soft locks and feel her warmth against him.

When her whimpers begin, he is on his feet in an instant; eager to provide whatever comfort he can, no matter how small.

"Sansa," he calls softly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's only a nightmare."

Her eyes pop open, and she looks around wildly. When she sees him there in the moonlight, standing beside the bed, he can see her begin to calm down and a shiver of pride ripples down his spine.

"Will you stay with me?" she asks.

"Of course."

Sansa sits up and throws the covers aside for him.

"No, no, no," she mumbles sounding panicked.

Tyrion follows her gaze, confused, until he sees the blood.

"Sansa?" he asks worried. "Are you alright?"

"No, no. I'm sorry," she pleads, looking over at him, her eyes wild with fear. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Realization dawns, and Tyrion feels himself relax.

"It's okay, Sansa. It's just your moonblood. I'll call someone to change the sheets."

He tries to reassure her, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm, but Sansa jumps and retreats. She curls into a ball in the center of the bed, trembling in fear.

"Please, don't," she murmurs, "please."

Tyrion doesn't know what's wrong, but he can see that she's not quite here with him.

He finds the matches and lights the candles beside the bed, brightening the room so she can clearly see him.

"Sansa?" he asks quietly. "Sansa please come back to me."

She's rocking in place, knees drawn to her chest, and arms wrapped around them protectively.

She won't look at him.

"Sansa, please. Look at me. It's me," he assures. "It's just Tyrion. I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help."

Slowly, she turns her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes are glazed at first, but he can see her fighting to focus on him.

She stares at him, blinking rapidly as silent tears stream down her cheeks.

"T—Tyrion?"

"I'm here, Sansa. It's just me."

She wipes her face roughly with both hands and looks down at the mess on the bed.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, her cheeks blushing brightly.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he swears. "Let me just call for some new sheets, and perhaps a bath so you can clean yourself up."

"I don't want anyone to see me," she insists.

Tyrion agrees and pulls a curtain closed halfway around the bed, blocking her from view of the rest of the room.

The servant he wakes isn't too pleased with him, but when he explains he needs a warm bath for Sansa all displeasure disappears.

It seems people all over the Pyramid are becoming quite taken with his flame-haired wife.

Tyrion gets the clean sheets himself, not allowing anyone near the bed.

After about thirty minutes, Tyrion calls to Sansa to let her know her bath is ready.

She climbs out of bed feeling embarrassed, and makes her way towards the steaming tub.

"I'll give you some privacy," Tyrion offers.

"No!" she cries, and then in a softer tone adds, "no, please. You can stay. You've already seen me, anyways."

He looks confused, but nods his head.

She knows he must think she is crazy. First panicking at the sight of her moonblood, then hiding away from him, terrified he'd hurt her.

 _Not that_ he _would hurt me…_ she thinks.

Tyrion wasn't the one she was afraid of.

Now, he stands there awkwardly, looking everywhere but at her as she disrobes, dropping her soiled garment on a pile by the foot of the tub.

She steps into the steaming water, and sits down, sinking back into the tub with a contented sigh.

Sansa looks over at Tyrion and sees he is still standing in the same place, not looking at her, seeming extremely unsure of what to do with himself.

She bites her lip and acts before she can second guess herself.

She rolls her head slowly, stretching her neck, and winces.

"Could you... could you rub my shoulders?" she asks, glancing over to Tyrion.

He turns towards her, a little shocked at her request.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

Sansa nods.

She doesn't want him to think that she's afraid of him.

 _I'm not afraid of him,_ she reassures herself. _Not really. I know Tyrion would never intentionally hurt me._

As she thinks about it, Sansa knows it is true.

She leans forward slightly in the tub, once more wrapping her arms about her knees, but keeping most of her back submerged in the soapy water.

His fingers graze her shoulders hesitantly at first, but he soon loses his nerves and begins press harder, seeking out the knots in her tense muscles.

Tyrion finds a rhythm to his ministrations and begins to hum.

Sansa rests her head against her knees and closes her eyes, letting the sound of his voice carry her away from her troubled memories.

"Tilt your head back," he asks her after a while.

Sansa complies, and Tyrion begins to wash her hair. His fingers massage her scalp, and Sansa lets out a contented sigh.

She's almost forgotten her nightmare.

After Tyrion rinses her hair with water from a fresh pitcher, Sansa finishes cleaning herself up and climbs out of the tub.

Tyrion holds a towel out to her, looking away as he does so.

While she dries herself and dresses in a clean night shift, Tyrion strips the sheets off of the bed.

When she's done dressing, she goes to help him put the fresh set on.

"Thank you," he says.

"No, thank you. I'm sorry for the way I acted."

Sansa sits on the edge of the freshly made bed, and Tyrion climbs up to stand behind her, brush in hand.

"There is nothing to apologize for," he tells her, beginning to brush her hair.

Sansa sits in silence, letting Tyrion brush her hair, and marvels at his unending kindness.

 _He is trying so hard, and giving so much, and I can't even hold a conversation when he tries._

She is very upset with herself.

 _I can at least try to open up… can't I? After everything Tyrion has done for me, can't I at least let him know me?_

"I…" she trails off, her nerves twisting her stomach. "I know you're not him. I know that you're nothing like Ramsey, but… when I saw the blood, my moonblood, all rational thought disappeared."

Sansa stands up, stepping away from Tyrion and the brush. She turns around to face him, trying so hard to make the words come out.

"Every time I bled," she continues, voice shaking, "every time it became clear I was… I was not with child. Ramsey would p-punish me."

Tyrion's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but his eyes show nothing but kindness, encouraging her to unburden herself.

"It would vary for the most part, b—but at the end he would… cut me. As a reminder of how I had failed him."

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek, and very slowly pulls the hem of her shift up past her waist. She steps forward until her thighs are pressed against the bed, and then points out the three angry red lines Tyrion had already noticed on her abdomen.

"Sansa…" Tyrion whispers sadly, gazing at her scars.

She drops the hem of her shift and stares down at the bed.

"When I saw the blood, I forgot where I was and who I was with," she explains. "But you pulled me back. You reminded me I was safe, and free, and I want to say thank you."

She continues staring down, until she feels Tyrion's hand graze against hers.

She looks back up at him as he clasps her hand.

"Sansa, I promise you _on my life_ he will never hurt you again."

Tyrion's eyes are all fire as he meets her gaze, and she finds that she truly believes him.

 _He won't let Ramsey lay a finger on me ever again._

She's not sure what to say, so she opts for action instead of words.

Very slowly, Sansa leans in and presses her lips to Tyrion's.

He doesn't move, standing perfectly still, allowing her to set the pace.

His lips are soft, softer than she had expected, with the slight taste of spiced rum.

When she pulls away, Sansa can feel the slight blush in her cheeks, but she's more distracted by the awe on Tyrion's face.

"Will you sing me to sleep?" she asks, climbing back into bed with him.

"Of course."

They settle in, bundled in clean sheets, with her head in his lap, and his hand in her hair.

The last thing Sansa remembers before drifting off is the sweet sound of Tyrion's voice.


	5. Chapter Five

Something shifts between them that night.

Just opening up to Tyrion that little bit, sharing one story of her hellish marriage to Ramsey, seems to crack the barrier she's erected between them.

Little by little, she finds herself opening up more.

When Tyrion asks her about her day over dinner the next night, she actually tells him about all she did, and in turn asks him about his work managing Meereen for the Dragon Queen.

The smile he gives her when she asks about his day, makes her stomach bubble in a way she has to admit is quite nice.

"The Sons of the Harpy are still causing trouble, but I have a meeting soon with those who I believe are funding them."

"That sounds dangerous," Sansa says, a little worried.

"Maybe for them," Tyrion shrugs. "The Unsullied won't let anything happen to me. At least while Daenerys is away."

"Will you tell me about her? What is she like?"

"She is... quite unlike anyone I have ever met," he starts. "She is so young, and so fierce. She has the mind of a ruler, but the temperament of a mother. Her fury can be terrifying, but her grace is definitely something to be coveted. I don't know if there has ever been anyone more fit to rule than she."

The wistful look on his face as he describes this woman sends a pang of annoyance through Sansa that she doesn't quite understand.

"She sounds wonderful," she tells him, her voice slightly forced.

"I hope she's alright."

"From what I've picked up around here, it sounds like the best people are out looking for her."

Tyrion smiles sadly and nods.

They eat in silence for several moments before Tyrion clears his throat and speaks again.

"How are you adjusting to life here in Meereen? Are you comfortable here? Enjoying the pyramid?"

"I'm quite comfortable, thank you. The weather is beautiful, and everyone I've met in the Pyramid has been very accommodating."

"Good, good," Tyrion replies happily. "I was rather hoping to ask you a favor then."

"Oh?"

"Missandei and I have spent most of our days lately trying to manage all of the supplicants, and that has left both of us very little time to deal with the day-to-day matters of the pyramid. I was hoping you might be willing to lend your services?"

"You want me to run the palace?"

"Who is better suited than the Lady of Winterfell? That is... I mean... if you want to."

"I would love to help you," Sansa insists, reaching across the table to pat the back of Tyrion's hand.

"Excellent, thank you. That is quite a load off my mind."

When the hour grows late, and they decide to retire, Tyrion once more begins to set up on the lounge.

"Tyrion?" Sansa asks softly. "Would you like to share the bed?"

"I don't want to impose. I'll let you keep your space."

"We both know you'll end up here in a few hours time anyway. What is the point pretending otherwise?"

He hesitates, not wanting to be yet another source of her unease.

"Please," Sansa asks, extending her hand to him, "come to bed with me?"

Her blue eyes stare at him intently, melting him in place, and Tyrion finds himself taking her hand and being led to their bed.

Sansa immediately curls up to him, much to his surprise, and he begins running his hands through her hair as he does after her nightmares.

"Sing to me?" she asks.

As if he could deny her anything.

The next morning, the sun wakes them both, and they turn to each other with pleasant surprise.

"No nightmares?" he asks.

"No nightmares," Sansa confirms.

She leans over and places a chaste kiss on his head before climbing out of bed.

"You truly are protecting me," she tells him brightly, and his chest puffs up with pride.

After breakfast, Tyrion tries to introduce Sansa to those she'll be working with to ensure everything in the Great Pyramid runs smoothly, only to find she already knows them from her time wandering around.

After that he leaves her to it and heads to the throne room, ready for another day of appeasing the masses.

Along the way, Tyrion is intercepted by Varys.

"How are things going between you and your young wife?" Varys asks, sounding merely conversational.

Tyrion knows better, the Spider never makes conversation for conversations sake..

"They are going as well as can be expected," he answers truthfully, waiting for Varys to get to the point.

"You're harboring no regrets then? Accepting the girl?"

"I'm regretting telling you about her," Tyrion sighs.

"Now, now, I just wanted to be sure before I shared my latest tidbit of information with you."

"What _tidbit_ might that be?"

Instead of replying, Varys simply holds out a raven's scroll. Taking it and scanning the page, Tyrion halts in his tracks.

 _My naughty northern bride has started a game of hide and seek and I would like to invite all of you to play with us! Join my team and help me seek her out or join hers and help her hide. There will be prizes for both teams! Join hers and your prize will be living to watch as your skin is peeled from your body. Join mine and whomever brings her to me shall be given two thousand gold dragons, and I'll even let them watch as I strap her down and-_

Tyrion feels his stomach turn as he reads the horrific acts Ramsey details.

He crumples the scroll in his fist, his body shaking in anger.

"Where did you get this?" he demands.

"One of my little birds in the North. Apparently they were sent out to all of the northern houses."

" _I want him dead,_ " Tyrion growls.

"I could whisper to my birds. I'm sure a drop of poison could make it's way into his evening meal. Although..."

"Although what?"

"Although with the Boltons out of the picture, that leaves Winterfell open for the taking once more. If it is taken before you or your wife have a chance to claim it, that just gives you a new enemy to contend with, and better the enemy you know."

"Or whoever swoops in will remember their loyalties and will hand the keep back to it's rightful ruler when she rides up to the gates," Tyrion suggests.

"Or perhaps winter will decide not to come and we'll all live in peace under the joint rule of Daenerys and your sister," Varys suggests sarcastically.

Tyrion nods, giving him that one, and thinks over the best course of action.

"Don't kill him," he instructs, "not because of who might take over the North after him, but because I promised Sansa his head, and I wish for her to be there when the axe is swung."

"Most men just give their wives jewelry," Varys tells him dryly, before gliding away.

 _That son of a bitch will pay_ , Tyrion vows, continuing on his way to the throne room.

Tyrion is still fuming over Ramsey's scroll when he retires to his chambers for dinner. He doesn't do a great job of hiding it, either, if Sansa's questioning glances are anything to go by.

"What's wrong?" she finally asks, about halfway through the meal.

"Hmm? Nothing."

She cocks her head to the side and gives him a very disbelieving look.

"You haven't asked about my day at all," she says, "after you set me up to help run things. Something _is_ wrong. I can tell when you're angry."

He sighs, and grabs the napkin from his lap, balling it up and tossing it on the table.

"I... don't wish to upset you," he tells her truthfully.

He hadn't planned to tell her about Ramsey's letter, not wanting to traumatize her further, but he hadn't counted on her ability to read him so well.

"I'm a big girl, I'm sure I can handle it," she insists, her eyes perhaps a bit shinier than normal.

With a loud sigh, and a heavy heart, Tyrion passes the crumpled scroll across the table to her.

Sansa takes it, brows furrowed, and spreads the mangled missive flat on the table, her eyes scanning it quickly.

Then, to Tyrion's complete and utter shock, she starts _laughing_.

 _Oh gods, I broke her,_ he thinks frantically, standing from his seat and rushing to her side.

"Sansa?"

He places a tentative hand on her knee, looking up at her.

She places her hand over his reassuringly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she insists, trying to quell her mirth.

"I wouldn't say laughing about a threat like that speaks to your being _fine_ ," he disagrees.

"He must be extremely angry," she says.

"I would say."

"No, I mean he must be so angry he can't think. That... threat... is childplay compared to what I know he is capable of."

Tyrion purses his lips, concern growing even more despite Sansa's continued laughter.

"Sansa," he coos softly, sliding the note from her white-knuckled grasp, the only sign she isn't as alright as she claims. "I won't let him ever touch you again."

Before his eyes, her laughter transforms to sobs, and she drops herself to the floor, throwing her arms around him.

He's not sure how long they sit there, clinging to one another like their lives depend on it. One thing he knows for certain, he will never allow anyone to hurt her ever again.


	6. Chapter Six

That night it is Tyrion who suffers from nightmares.

 _He's frozen in place, forced to watch as a faceless figure stalks up behind Sansa, catching her unaware. She turns to face her attacker, terror marring her beautiful face, and stumbles backwards trying to escape._

 _"How?" She begs. "How did you find me?"_

 _The figure laughs, his voice cold and cruel._

 _"Did you really think that_ dwarf _would be able to protect you from me? No, no, no, my blushing bride. He couldn't keep me away. You'll always be mine."_

 _Tyrion tries to scream but he can't even manage a croak._

 _Unable to do anything else, he watches as this demon figure of Ramsey Bolton descends on Sansa._

His eyes snap open as he jerks awake.

Sansa is curled up to him, her hand fisted in his tunic. Tyrion draws a shaky breath, thankful he didn't wake her.

Gently, he reaches up to brush hair out of her face.

 _She looks so peaceful when she sleeps,_ he thinks, studying her. _Just as she did when I first laid eyes on her in Winterfell._

He mourns the loss of her inner peace and innocence.

 _This poor girl... woman... has been through more than any should ever have to face._

Tyrion's stomach sours as his thoughts return to his nightmare.

 _I will not fail you._

"I will protect you," he says softly, more for his own benefit.

Sansa stirs against him, snuggling closer.

"I know," she murmurs, still half asleep.

With her confidence warming him, Tyrion manages to fall back asleep.

The next morning after a shared breakfast in their chambers, Sansa sees Tyrion off and readies herself for the day.

For the first time since she arrived in Meereen, she decides to wear something of the local style. She puts on a gauzy gown made of light blue fabric.

It ties around her neck, but leaves her back bare, something she's acutely aware of. Sansa grabs a shawl to wrap tightly around herself and heads out to see about getting things in the Pyramid straightened out.

In the time since the Dragon Queen disappeared, those serving in the palace have started to question whether she will, in fact, return. With the uncertainty sweeping Meereen, and the whispers of war, many supplies have started to disappear from the keep.

Sansa doesn't blame the servants, even though she is positive it is they who have been skimming supplies.

She recognizes the fear they try to hide in their eyes as they whisper to each other, darting around in pairs, never to be caught alone.

These men and women, once slaves, are terrified of things going back to the way they were. Terrified of being recaptured by their tormentors.

Sansa understands their pain. She doesn't begrudge them their preparations for the worst.

It is her job to get things back in order, though, and she fully intends to. When and if this Dragon Queen returns, Sansa will prove her usefulness and win her over.

 _I won't go back._

After calling a meeting for all of the servants still maintaining their posts, Sansa asks Pod to translate for her, knowing not all of them can speak the common tongue.

"Good morning," she greets.

Pod translates and there is a small murmuring reply.

"I know things have been difficult for you lately, and I know you are scared," she tells them. "I also know that I am an outsider and you have no reason to trust me, but I want to assure you that everything _will_ be alright."

Not being the most adept at High Valyrian, Pod stumbles a few times, but manages to convey her words.

The servants are watching her closely, and seem willing to hear her out, so Sansa continues.

"I know you fear for your... mother, but if you believe in her you must know she will return. From what I have learned things were not good for you before she came and released you, and I understand the terror these uncertain times hold for you."

One of the servants, a middle aged man, scoffs and spits at her feet. Brienne steps out from where she was watching, ready to draw her sword but Sansa shakes her head no.

"Ask him if he has something to say," she tells Podrick.

Podrick relays her message and she waits as the man responds, shaking his head and glaring at her.

"You know nothing," Pod translates. "You with your... soft hands, who have never... known what work, torment, or fear are. The words you share, sorry speak," Pod corrects himself, "are as empty as your knowing... understanding of hardship."

Sansa watches as others in the group nod along with this man's words, and she makes a split second decision hoping she won't regret it later.

She drops her shawl to the ground, revealing her bruised arms.

This catches their attention, but she knows it isn't enough.

Taking a shaky breath, Sansa turns away from the servants, and pulls her hair over her shoulder revealing her back to them.

She can hear their whispers as they look at her, and a sharp intake of breath beside her tells her Podrick sees as well.

"I _understand_ how you feel," she tells them, pausing to let Pod translate, "because I _know_ I would rather die than return to how things used to be."

She bends to pick up her shawl, wrapping herself up and hiding the angry red lines Ramsey sliced into her with his whip.

When she turns to look at them once more, the faces watching her are much more alert.

The man who spit at her steps forward, slowly reaching out his hand.

With a shaking arm, Sansa reaches for him as well, letting him take a gentle hold of her hand.

" _Hāedar_ ," he says, bowing his head and squeezing her fingers reassuringly.

After a moment he lets go and retreats to the group, waiting to hear her out.

"What did he say?" Sansa asks Pod.

"I'm not sure, sorry."

With a deep breath, Sansa pushes aside her trepidation and continues speaking.

"What got you through your darkest days?" she asks. "Belief. Belief that tomorrow could be better. What drove you to action, striking out against the Masters? You believed in what Queen Daenerys promised you. You believed in her."

Pausing to give Podrick a chance to catch up she surveys the crowd, noting how raptly they are paying attention.

"It's time to find that belief again. Keep faith in your Queen, and know she will return to you. In the mean time, however, we have to make sure she has a home to return to. We will not let the threats of a few cause us to cower and hide. We will not let the past continue to haunt us. We will move forward, hold our ground, and _believe_ tomorrow will be better."

The group in front of her shake their heads and smile, offering their agreement.

From there it is easy enough to get them all on the same page. Everyone wants to help get things back on track, none of them want Daenerys to be disappointed in them when they return for not believing in her.

Afterwards several servants come up to grasp Sansa's hands, thanking her and calling her ' _H_ _āedar_ ' again.

"That was... intense," Podrick says as he, Brienne, and Sansa walk towards their next task.

"That was brave," Brienne counters, "what you did back there."

Sansa blushes.

"They just want to be reassured. They don't want to be scared anymore," Sansa tells them absentmindedly.

Her mind wanders back to Ramsey's letter, and she can feel her breath quicken.

"I- I think I'm going to go lie down for a bit," she tells them, "I'm suddenly not feeling well."

"Would you like me to walk you back, my lady?"

"No, thank you, Brienne. I'll be fine."

Without another word Sansa takes off back to the room she shares with Tyrion. She just manages to make it inside and close the door before she collapses in a trembling heap on the other side.

"He won't find me. He _won't_."

By the time Tyrion returns that evening Sansa has her emotions in check once more and is able to greet him with a small, yet sincere, smile.

"How was your day?" she asks, pouring him a glass of wine.

"Oh, delightful and interesting. Not at _all_ tedious or frustrating," he tells her with a wink. "Yours?"

"Enlightening."

She passes Tyrion his drink and pours one for herself.

As he takes a sip he watches her over the rim of his cup and it strikes him how much he's wanted this. Not the wine, but someone to share it with. Someone to come home to each day and discuss all the little things.

 _I could get used to having a wife._

Unable to fight the urge, Tyrion studies Sansa's form in her now gown appreciatively.

 _I could get very used to having a wife._

His thoughts must be plain from his expression, because when he looks back up at her face Sansa is watching him, eyes wide as saucers.

 _Excellent work, now she's going to expect you to jump her. As if she isn't terrified enough._

"Your discussion must have went very well with the staff today," he says, trying to break the sudden tension. "On my way here I noticed a small golden statue that had gone missing has since returned."

"I think it went better than expected," she agrees.

"I wouldn't say that, I _expected_ you to be amazing, and you are."

Sansa shakes her head at him, but he can see the small smile dancing on her lips as she turns away.

Shortly after his arrival dinner is brought up to them. When he asks if she would like Brienne and Pod to join them she shakes her head abruptly.

"Um, no, no. I think they had other plans."

He doesn't know she's afraid of what they'll tell him about her speech that afternoon.

They dine alone, and Tyrion does most of the talking, explaining how tenuous things are currently in Meereen. Thankfully, even though she doesn't speak much, he can tell she is engaged in what he's saying and Tyrion takes it as a sign she's not backsliding or retreating from him.

"I'm meeting with the ones responsible for financing the Sons of the Harpy tomorrow," he tells her as they are finishing up their meal.

"So soon? Are you sure? Is that safe?"

"They need to be dealt with. As I told you before, the Unsullied won't let anything happen to me."

"Can I be there with you?" she asks. "When you meet them?"

"I don't think that's the wisest choice."

"If it's so safe why can't I go?" Sansa counters.

Tyrion opens and closes his mouth several times before answering.

"You... stand out. Your complexion and hair are not a common sight around here."

"And?"

"And these men are very well connected. We don't know whether they have contacts in Westeros or not, but if they do we cannot give them the leverage of knowing a beautiful redhead appeared in the city shortly after Ram- after one went so prominently missing from the North."

He can tell by the set of her jaw she wants to argue his point, but before she can there is a knock on the door.

Two women bustle in to clear the table.

One of them approaches Sansa first and hands her a small metal container.

"It for you," the woman tells Sansa, patting her hand. "It _baelagon..._ help your back, _Hāedar._ "

"Thank you, I mean, _kirimvose._ "

Tyrion smiles, wondering how many other words in High Valyrian Sansa has picked up.

"What is that?" he asks, gesturing to the container once they are alone again.

"Hmm, oh nothing really. I think it's some sort of lotion," she replies dismissively.

"Why did she think it would help your back?"

He doesn't think she's going to give him an answer, especially when she turns away, but then she drops her shawl and sweeps her hair aside.

Tyrion crosses the room to her, barely able to breath.

Her first day in Meereen, when she stripped and asked him to bed her, he never got a clear view of her back.

He didn't see the marks.

Angry red lines cut into her, crisscrossed across her back, the remnants of a madman's torment.

The wounds look freshly healed, but still bright red and angry.

"Sansa," he whispers.

"Don't," she orders, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I can't bear it if you pity me."

He swallows thickly, understanding all too well the agony of pity.

"Sit," he tells her, voice hoarse. "I'll help you."

Sansa seats herself on a small stool and waits as Tyrion gets the container the servant brought her.

Removing the lid, a strongly medicinal smell meets his nose and he gathers a generous amount of the concoction before gently applying it to Sansa's tender skin.

His movements are careful and measured, his touch light, not wanting to cause her any discomfort.

As her shoulders start to tremble he begins humming to her.

It seems to help.

Afterwards, as they lie in bed, his wife once again curled to his side, she thanks him.

Tyrion responds by placing a chaste kiss on her forehead and twining his fingers in her hair.

"Tyrion?"

"Hmm?"

"What does _Hāedar_ mean?" she yawns. "All the staff have started calling me that since our meeting today."

"Have they?"

"It's not like, High Valyrian for cunt, is it?"

Tyrion chuckles and pulls her closer.

"No," he reassures her, "it means 'little sister'."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** No, I haven't forgot about this story. But I suck at balancing responsibilities.


	7. Chapter Seven

Sansa is very reluctant to let Tyrion leave for his meeting the next day.

"I just don't understand why I can't be there," she argues. "I can cover my hair and keep my head down."

"Even so, I just want you to be safe. These are not nice men."

"You told me there was nothing to worry about, and now you say it may not be safe? What about you?"

"Don't worry about me," he tries to reassure her.

"But what if something happens? What will I... what happens then?"

Sansa is kneeling by the door, face to face with him, blocking the exit.

"Sansa," he sighs, realizing the base of her concern. "No matter what happens to me, I assure you that you will be taken care of. No one will return you to Ramsey. I've instructed Lord Varys to look after you."

He can sense her relief in the droop of her shoulders.

"Thank you... I... that doesn't mean I don't want you to be safe, though," she admits, not meeting his eyes.

Her fair cheeks give away her embarrassment, and Tyrion is quite touched by her admission.

"After I escaped," she tells him, still studying the stone floor, "I didn't think I would ever be able to sleep again. And I hardly could. Until I got here that is. You have helped me in more ways than one, and I don't want you to think I only care for your well-being as it relates to mine."

"My lady," Tyrion breathes softly, unable to formulate a reply.

At long last Sansa looks up to meet his gaze, her blue eyes betraying her nerves.

Slowly, she reaches both her hands out and places them on either side of his face.

"Please be safe," she whispers before closing the distance and placing a soft kiss on his lips.

He is so shocked, Tyrion barely has time to respond in kind before she draws away.

"I swear to you I will be," he vows.

With a resigned nod, Sansa stands and moves away from the door, allowing him to pass.

Tyrion pauses in the open doorway to admire his wife, his chest swelling with pride and reverence, before closing it behind him and marching towards the main hall.

 _That was... interesting,_ Sansa thinks, gently pressing her fingers to her still tingling lips.

She wanted to give Tyrion a sign of her admiration, and even though she was sure it would be awful and terrifying, she decided to kiss him.

 _But it wasn't awful, and it wasn't terrifying._

His lips were soft, warm, and yielding. There was no brute force or gnashing teeth biting into her lip, fighting to be in control.

 _It was actually quite pleasant._

Her stomach flutters in a way it hasn't since when she still thought Joffrey a kindly and handsome prince. Or when she thought she would be wed to Loras.

Sansa's not entirely sure what that means, but admits it is something that may require further study.

After Tyrion's departure, Sansa has a hard time keeping herself occupied. Her mind keeps wandering to the horrible scenarios that could be happening.

She tries to busy herself by working on yet another new dress, but keeps pricking her finger as her mind wanders.

After that, she takes to roaming the halls, being careful to avoid the vicinity of the main hall. She must have been rather inspiring, however, because she can't find a single thing out of place that may require her attention.

Sansa peeks in to the rooms she passes, trying to find something or someone to distract her, until she comes across what looks like a laundry chamber in one of the lower levels.

There is a short older woman sitting by herself folding linens.

Sansa almost keeps walking, but the woman looks up and sees her, shooting her a brilliant smile.

She wears her hair hidden beneath a cloth and for a moment Sansa is reminded of her Septa.

 _So kind, and caring... and I was so rude to her before they took her head._

Ignoring the tightness in her throat, Sansa enters the room and approaches the old woman.

"Would you like some help?" she asks, despite having never folded laundry in her life.

The woman says something in High Valyrian.

"Oh, um... _baelagon_?"

" _Kessa, kessa, demagon."_

 _Yes, yes, sit._

Sansa takes a seat next to the woman, watching her work a moment before trying to assist.

Taking a sheet from the pile before them, Sansa tries to mimic her companion's motions.

It goes poorly.

The woman 'tsks' her tongue and folds her own sheet much slower so Sansa can see each movement.

Her next attempt is better. The woman shrugs halfheartedly and pats her on the knee like a small child.

"Do you speak the common tongue?" she asks.

The woman looks at her strangely, shakes her head, and returns to work.

"You remind me of my Septa," Sansa tells her.

The woman begins to hum quietly.

"You look like her," Sansa continues anyway. "A bit around the eyes. She wasn't as quiet as you though."

Sansa smiles softly, focusing on folding the sheet in her lap.

"She liked to tell stories. They always just felt like stories, but later, once you were lying in bed, you would realize that they were really lessons. She taught me so much."

Placing the folded sheet in the done pile, Sansa grabs another from the work pile.

"She made me the woman I am almost as much as my mother did... well, perhaps they made me the girl I _was_. The woman I am is the result of much crueler lessons."

The next cloth she folds is the best so far, and the woman laughs and pats her leg again.

"If my Septa was here she wouldn't believe her eyes. Needlepoint? That I can do. Folding laundry? Never in a million years."

Growing up in Winterfell, Sansa did have some chores, but that mostly consisted of making her bed and picking her clothes off the floor. She never had to do real work, just enough to keep her humble.

 _Or try to keep me humble,_ she thinks, recalling her young and spoiled self.

She shakes her head. Sansa realized long ago there is no use in blaming her younger self for being _young_.

"What is your name?" Sansa asks, hoping the woman will recognize the question.

When she doesn't, Sansa points to herself.

"Sansa," she says. "I am Sansa. You?"

She points to the woman.

"Aliya," she replies, pointing to herself.

"Aliya," Sansa says, testing the name out.

"Hāedar," Aliya says, pointing to Sansa.

Not wanting to argue against what seems to be an honorary title, Sansa returns her attention to the pile of linens in front of them.

Aliya resumes her humming.

When at last the pile before them is gone, neatly folded and arranged, Aliya stands and offers her hands to Sansa.

She accepts, standing, and allows the woman to thank her.

"It is I who should be thanking you. You gave me a momentary glimpse back to the life stolen from me, and reminded me of someone special."

With a bemused smile, having no idea what was just said, Aliyah waves Sansa off.

Feeling lighter than she had that morning, Sansa returns to her chambers.

Tyrion is already there when she arrives.

"There you are," he exclaims when she walks in, and she can see the worry on his face.

"Is everything all right?" she asks.

"Yes… I was just worried. You were so determined to be included today, and then when I got back you weren't here eagerly waiting for news. You frightened me."

Her stomach flutters again.

"I didn't mean to worry you. I just couldn't stand sitting still and waiting for news. I went off to find a distraction."

"Did you find one?"

"Well, yes," she answers, "but that hardly matters at the moment. How did your meeting go?"

Tyrion pours them both a glass of wine and invites her to sit with him.

"I think it went as well as could be expected," he assures her as she sits. "We made some small headway today, though, neither side is truly happy."

"Why?" Sansa asks before sipping her wine.

"I demanded they abolish slavery, but knowing this was going to be a lot to ask I gave them leeway."

"What kind of leeway?"

"I said that if they immediately stop funding the Sons of the Harpy I would allow them a seven-year grace period in which to phase out slavery."

Sansa chews her bottom lip consideringly and stares into her goblet of wine.

"I take it you disapprove?" Tyrion asks. "Grey-Worm and Missandei do, though thankfully they supported me in our meeting."

"No… I understand where your proposition comes from. By allowing them a grace period, these men are less likely to choose war than they would be had you demand they change their way of life overnight. It's just…" she stops.

"Just what?"

"How many men and women who are slaves today, won't make it until the end of the seven years? How many will die before knowing freedom?"

"How many will die, here, under our protection, if the Harpy's are allowed to continue?"

"I know," she sighs. "All choices available are distasteful, but yours is the most practical. You did well."

Tyrion downs the rest of his drink.

"Then why do I feel so despicable?"

Setting her glass aside, Sansa shifts to face him. She reaches out to cup his cheek.

"You did what you could to keep this city afloat. I am proud of you," she insists.

Tyrion stares up at her, almost as if he can't believe she is there. He places his hand over hers, his fingers spreading warmth where they meet her skin.

"Thank you, my lady."

Curiosity, more than desire, drives Sansa to once more close the distance between them.

She presses her lips to his, and once again he is soft, warm and yielding.

Her bold move surprises him and his lips part as he draws in a sharp breath. Sansa takes the opportunity to ever so lightly trace her tongue along his lip and slip it into his mouth.

The sound he makes, low, guttural, and full of want makes her heart race and she presses herself closer to Tyrion.

Her hands slip into his hair, and she can feel him wrap his arms around her waist.

 _Fingers on her hips, biting into the flesh… hurting… bruising. The feral glint in his eyes and the wicked predatory smile warn her there is no escape._

Cold water running through her veins shocks her back to the present, and Sansa pulls away gasping looking terrified.

Tyrion is quick to react, pulling his hands back and holding them up in surrender.

At first he looks confused at her sudden withdrawal, but the look on her face speaks volumes.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "Would you like me to leave?"

Tears burn her eyes and blur her vision.

"Why are _you_ sorry?" she asks. "I am the one who is broken."

"Sansa—"

"I came here and forced myself into your life, and I can't even do something as simple grant my husband a kiss."

"Sansa," Tyrion begs, his voice broken and desperate. "You are _not_ broken, and you did _not_ force yourself into my life."

Hesitantly he reaches out to take her hand. She flinches slightly under his touch but doesn't pull away.

"I have already told you I expect nothing from you," he swears.

"I should still be able to give it if I choose," she sniffles.

"This morning when you kissed me, what happened?" he asks.

She doesn't answer, instead staring dejectedly at her lap.

"What happened after you kissed me?"

"N—nothing."

"What was different this time?"

"I couldn't…" her voice cracks.

"Shh," he coos soothingly. "It's alright. I just want to you walk me through it. Tell me everything that went through your head."

Her cheeks flame, but the unshed tears seem to diminish, and she starts talking.

"I wanted to—to kiss you. I wanted to make you feel better, and… I wanted to see if it would feel like it did this morning."

"Keep going," he encourages.

"I enjoyed it," she admits, her cheeks now as bright as her hair. "You were soft, and warm, and gentle… You… made a sound and I felt— powerful. I wanted to feel that again, and then I felt your hands on my waist, but suddenly they weren't your hands. It wasn't your face I was seeing."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I was back there in that room. At his mercy."

Tyrion is quiet, his heart aching for his wife, and his blood boiling with rage over the hell that monster put her through.

"I'm sorry," Sansa apologizes again. "M—maybe we can try again. I'll try to do better."

Her eyes are huge and pleading, so desperate to please.

"Not like this," Tyrion disagrees. "Not right now."

"But later?" she asks.

"After I have time to prepare."

"Prepare?"

"I have an idea on how you can take your power back."


	8. Chapter Eight

The next morning as they get around for their day, Tyrion doesn't mention the previous night and Sansa wonders what exactly it is he has to 'prepare.'

She decides not to bring it up, her own embarrassment muzzling her despite the questions buzzing in her head.

After wishing one another a good day, they both set off to attend their duties.

Sansa, however, finds herself increasingly distracted throughout the day. Her mind keeps rotating between two equally pressing thoughts. On the one hand, she's furious with her own inability to do something as simple as kiss her husband without having a panic attack.

 _You are a Stark of Winterfell. You can overcome your fears._

On the other hand, she can't stop thinking about Tyrion's continued patience with her.

 _He's been so understanding._

Part of her can't help wondering if it's a game he's playing, biding his time until she feels safe and content and then…

 _And then what?_ She asks herself. _I've offered him everything. There is nothing left to take._

Sansa shakes her head and reprimands herself. She knows Tyrion isn't trying to hurt her. He's proved that over and over again.

 _Tyrion is nothing like the other Lannisters. He has always treated me with kindness and understanding._

Despite her growing trust in her husband, she is a little nervous for whatever it is that Tyrion has planned for her to 'take her power back.'

 _Whatever that means._

The day passes agonizingly slow.

When it's finally time to return to her chambers for dinner Sansa practically runs there.

Tyrion is already waiting for her when she gets there, dinner laid out on the table for them both.

"Good evening," she greets him, trying to hide her labored breathing. "How was your day?"

Tyrion pulls a chair out for her and she sits.

"About the same as usual. Lines of supplicants asking when Daenerys will return, wondering why they should listen to some dwarf from across the sea."

He takes a seat across from her and pours himself a glass of wine.

"Don't they know what you've done for them?" Sansa asks, incensed on his behalf. "You have kept this place from falling to ruin while their Dragon Queen is off gallivanting gods know where. You could have slipped away and left them to their destruction, but you stayed and made it work."

"I'm not exactly an inspiring figure," he says, unable to meet her gaze.

Sansa scoffs.

"You inspire _me_ ," she says softly.

Sansa rises from her seat and moves closer to Tyrion, kneeling beside his chair.

"I crossed the Narrow Sea because you inspired me to," she insists, placing her hand on his knee.

Finally, Tyrion brings himself to look at her.

 _My beautiful wife,_ he thinks.

He wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss her, to show her how his heart swells and races when she is near, but he resists. He will not be the cause of more distress for her.

Instead, it's Sansa who makes the move and stretches up to kiss him.

Her lips ghost lightly across his, just for a moment, before she sighs and instead rests her forehead against his.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, pulling back. "I want to…"

 _I truly do want to,_ she thinks, furious with herself.

The few times she has kissed Tyrion so far have been… wonderful. She never imagined she could find pleasure in another, not after all she's gone through, but when her lips meet Tyrion's… Sansa can glimpse a different future.

One where she can turn to her husband for comfort. One where he can embrace her and she doesn't fear his grasp biting into her and bruising her flesh.

It's all right there in front of her. And yet…

When she tries to kiss him all she can think of is the previous night, when his hands found her body and she panicked, pulling away.

 _I can't keep doing this to him,_ she tells herself. _Teasing him and then withdrawing._

"I want to," she repeats, "but I don't know if I ever can. I'm too… I'm too broken."

She bows her head.

"Sansa," Tyrion breathes, "you are _not_ broken. And you are not obligated."

"I don't try out of obligation," she says, looking up once more.

"Last night I said I would help you take your power back. I will still help you, but I need to know that you are doing this because you truly want to and not because you feel you owe me."

Sansa stands up and turns away from him.

"Perhaps you're just as broken as I," she tells him.

"Pardon?"

"How many times must I tell you I _want_ to. I will not deny that part of me wishes to throw myself at you simply to prove that I can. That I can overcome everything _he_ put me through. But that's not the only reason. When I kissed you I felt something I never have before, and I want to feel it again."

Sansa turns back around, staring down at him intensely.

"I want _you,_ Tyrion. Not out of duty or obligation. I just… want you."

She can feel her cheeks burning in embarrassment at her bold statement.

Tyrion is looking up at her from the dinner table, eyes glistening and disbelief on his face. He wants to believe her, she knows, but he still looks like a man lied to too many times. Hesitant and cautious. Refusing to let hope carry him away.

" _Please,_ " she whispers.

Almost imperceptively, Tyrion nods.

He climbs down from his chair and approaches her, offering his hand.

Sansa takes it and lets him lead her across the room to their bed.

She tries to quell the panic.

Tyrion releases her hand and goes to the night stand to grab something.

The clanking metal sound startles her, and when Tyrion turns around she sees he's holding two sets of manacles.

The sight shoots a bolt of fear through her heart and she subconsciously rubs her wrists.

Instead of demanding she wear them, Tyrion surprises her. He clamps a manacle around his own wrist and climbs onto their bed, then fastens the other cuff to the headboard.

"I'll need some help with my other hand," he says.

"Tyrion—"

"Sansa," he interrupts. "Please just do it."

Slowly she climbs up onto the bed beside him. He holds out the other set of manacles and she takes it, the metal cold and heavy in her hand.

She looks at him for confirmation and he nods, so Sansa does as bid. She fastens one cuff around his wrist and the other to the headboard.

Tyrion sits at the head of the bed, his arms spread and shackled, and gives Sansa a soft look.

"Last night you said when I touched you, it wasn't my hands you were feeling. I could just promise not to touch you, but I want you to know that you are truly in control, Sansa. Anything that happens is up to you."

"Do you truly trust me so?" she asks.

"I trust you with my life."

Sansa brushes away an errant tear.

"Now, we don't have to do this right now," Tyrion tells her, "I just wanted to show you—"

His words die off as Sansa climbs onto his lap, placing a leg on either side of his and straddling him.

She cups his face in her hands and leans in to kiss him fiercely.

Her swift movements shock him, but the shock is quickly replaced with desire. Her lips a sweet, uncertain, and searching.

Tyrion's not sure if he's ever wanted anyone more than he wants his wife in this moment.

Her tongue darts out to trace his lip and Tyrion can't prevent a moan from escaping his lips.

This just seems to spur her on more. She pulls back slightly and when opens his eyes and sees the mischievous smirk on her face it sends a jolt straight to his manhood.

Sansa closes the distance again and reclaims his lips.

She's never felt this powerful before.

Every sound he makes just increases her need. Her need to be closer, to kiss him deeper, to feel him beneath her.

She rocks her hips forward slightly and feels the hardness beneath her.

She waits for the fear and panic to come, but it doesn't.

 _I am in control_.

Experimentally she rocks her hips forward again, and Tyrion's head falls backwards as he moans.

The friction is nice, she realizes, but his reaction is even better.

Burying her fingers in his hair she pulls his head back up so she can kiss him again.

She lets her tongue explore his mouth, heart racing as he starts to mirror her.

While keeping her lips firmly pressed to Tyrion's, Sansa again rocks her hips.

This time the sound he makes is lost in her mouth.

 _Tyrion Lannister,_ she thinks, _the man who has lain with the best trained lovers in the world is coming undone beneath_ me.

Pride and desire course through her veins and Sansa continues to rock her hips.

Switching angles slightly, this time it is Sansa who gasps.

"Oh."

She sits up straight and tries to mimic the movement she just made, leaving her hands resting on his shoulders.

" _Oh."_

If she angles herself just right, and rocks her hips just so…

" _Gods,"_ she moans, letting her head fall back.

She settles into a rhythm, moving her hips forward and back, rubbing herself on the hardness beneath her.

Tyrion can't take his eyes off of her.

His wife, his gorgeous, cunning, sweet, and delectable wife has her head thrown back in pleasure as she rides him.

Even with the layers of fabric between them, Tyrion can feel her heat as she presses against his member.

He wants to succumb and let his eyes fall closed and enjoy the feel of the woman on top of him, it's been so long after all, but he refuses to take his gaze off of her.

He refuses to miss one moment of her ecstasy.

Tyrion longs to call her name, to ask her to look at him, but he holds his tongue. He doesn't want to pull her out of this moment.

Sansa lets out another throaty moan and he almost finishes beneath her, but he forces himself to hold back.

"Ah… ah…" her voice grows higher pitched and her movements become erratic.

 _By the seven I can't…_

Unable to stop it, Tyrion groans deeply as he finishes inside his trousers.

Gasping, Sansa goes limp, collapsing against him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

Unable to hold her with his hands bound above him, Tyrion settles for nuzzling his face against her head and pressing a kiss to her hair.

After a while, when her breathing has slowed and evened, Sansa sits up.

Her face is flushed and she stares down at his shirt.

"I— um— is…?"

"Sansa," he says softly, "you have nothing to be embarrassed about. If you have questions, please ask. Though, if you could release me first, my wrists would thank you."

"Oh, of course!"

Sansa scrambles off of Tyrion and gets the key from the bedside table. She releases him from his bonds and Tyrion rubs his wrists gingerly.

"Do you mind if I take a moment to clean up?" he asks, shifting uncomfortably at the sticky mess in his trousers.

Sansa looks confused for a split second before her eyes go wide and she blushes.

"No, go— go right ahead."

She jumps off the bed and goes back to the table where the now cold dinner lays.

Tyrion cleans himself up quickly and joins her at the table, reaching for his wine glass.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, taking a sip.

"Slightly mortified," she mumbles.

"Why? That was perfectly natural."

"I've never behaved so wonton before. Is that typical?" she asks, staring into her lap.

"With me? Always."

This earns a small smile and she looks back up at him.

"How did you feel?" he asks.

"I should think that is rather obvious."

Tyrion chuckles.

"I meant, my lady, how did you feel that was different than last night?"

Sansa helps herself to a glass of wine before answering, staring into the cup as if it will give her the answers she needs.

"Last night when you touched me I was thrown back to my time with _him_. Earlier when I tried to kiss you, I was hesitant because I didn't want to lose it if you reached out for me. But over there," she gestures to the bed, "I felt in complete control. I knew that no one could hurt me. Not that I think you would," she rushes.

"I understand," he reassures her.

"Thank you," she tells him.

"You owe me no thanks."

"Regardless, I offer it freely."

They both pick at their dinner disinterestedly, lost in their own thoughts.

When they climb into bed for the night, Sansa immediately curls to Tyrion, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Goodnight, my husband."

"Goodnight, my wife."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Holy hell has it been way too long since I updated this... Thank you to everyone who is actually still reading this! With the new season closing in on us and a canon Sanrion reunion within grasp I have been feeling extra motivated. Hope to have another chapter up within a week!


	9. Chapter Nine

The next morning Sansa awakes with a sleepy, satisfied smile on her face. She's still curled up to Tyrion, and though she doesn't wish to wake him, she can't stop herself from stretching.

She rolls over onto her back, stretching her arms above her head. Her hand knocks into the headboard with a _clank_ and she looks up to see the manacles still hanging above her.

She flushes at the memory of her wanton behavior the night before, but less from embarrassment, and more from a reblossoming desire.

Tyrion is still sound asleep beside her and she turns onto her side to study him.

The dawn light is starting to dance across their room, and she watches the morning rays glimmer in his tousled hair.

He looks so content Sansa almost refrains from waking him.

It's the quiet sigh passing his parted lips that urges her on.

Sansa leans in slowly, her hair falling in a curtain around them as she meets his mouth with her own.

A slow, languid kiss draws him from his slumber.

When she pauses to look at him again, she sees his eyes fluttering as he wakes.

Smiling to herself, Sansa kisses him again.

He shifts slightly beneath her and raises a hand to twine in her hair, pulling her closer.

She stiffens briefly, waiting for the panic to rise… but it doesn't. Instead her body responds to his gentle touch, urging her closer.

Deepening the kiss, Sansa explores his mouth with her tongue, still in awe of the pleasure it brings her. She's starting to see possibilities before her she never expected.

A future in which she doesn't withdraw from her husband's touch, but rather leans into it and enjoys the feelings it elicits.

Tyrion raises his other hand and runs it along her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She shivers beneath his touch pleasantly.

After another moment of exploration, Tyrion removes his hand from her hair and breaks their kiss.

"Good morning," he says, voice husky and eyes dark as he looks up at her.

"Morning," she replies.

She's considering kissing him again, but he must read her expression and interrupts her train of thought.

"Perhaps you shouldn't push yourself further this morning," he says softly. "As much as I would love nothing more than to lie in bed and kiss you senseless all morning, I don't want you to rush things."

Sansa is proud of herself and her ability to enjoy the feel of Tyrion reaching out to her, but she sees the wisdom in his words. Last night was a big victory for her on the way to taking her power back and she doesn't want to undo her progress by pressing forward into something she's not sure she is ready for.

Leaning in she gives him one more small kiss before climbing from bed to ready herself for the day.

Tyrion follows her lead, positive he has a day full of troubles ahead of him.

He's pleasantly surprised to find that's not the case.

Since his deal with the Slavers, things have settled down in the city. The new peace is fragile, but it's more than they had before and he is grateful his plan paid off.

Grey Worm and Missandei are both reluctant to agree he made the right call, but he can tell the new quiet is a relief to them anyway.

Sansa isn't surprised when he tells her over dinner that his plan is working out.

"Tyrion, you're the cleverest man alive, of course it's working."

"You flatter me, my lady," he says, brushing her comment off.

"I mean it. Don't sell yourself short.

The opportunity is too golden to pass and he opens his mouth to make a dwarf comment, but realizing her misstep, Sansa shakes her head and interrupts.

"Tyrion…"

He resists the temptation to continue and instead marvels at the way her mouth caresses his name. He's not sure it's ever sounded sweeter than it does on her lips.

"Thank you," he says instead. "You know, between the two of us we're probably the smartest couple in the world."

Sansa laughs.

"Now _you're_ being too kind."

"I don't think so. You're brilliant, Sansa. You'd never have survived if you weren't. You can play the game with the best of them."

Her eyes drop to her lap.

"Perhaps. But I've definitely lost a few rounds."

"Haven't we both," he sighs sadly.

She looks back up at him, and her chest aches when she sees how down he looks.

"Well," she says, boldly reaching across for his hand, "we're on the same team now. No one else stands a chance."

That draws a smile from him and he squeezes her hand in return.

"Right you are, my Lady."

When they go to bed, Sansa is quick to curl to his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

The warmth of his body pressed so near hers causes her heart to race, and she wonders what is going on with her traitorous body.

 _How have I transitioned so quickly from fearing intimacy to craving it?_

She answers her own question.

 _Because it's Tyrion, and I know he'd never hurt me._

With a mind of its own, Sansa's hand finds its way beneath the hem of Tyrion's tunic. She lets it wander up his abdomen and brings it to rest on his chest.

He tenses beneath her in a moment of surprise, but quickly relaxes.

She continues her ministrations, letting her fingers trace gently over his chest, twining them in the course hair.

Tyrion lays as still as possible.

Wherever her hand touches heat follows, and he wants nothing more than to turn his head and kiss her.

He doesn't. He lets her set the pace.

After a while her hand slows and then stops. He can feel the heavy rise and fall of her chest pressed to his side and Tyrion knows she's drifted to sleep.

He's not as lucky. His mind too full of dangerous thoughts to let him fall into slumber.

When she whimpers in her sleep and curls her body closer to him, he turns to press his lips to her forehead.

"Shhh," he murmurs, "I'm right here."

"Tyrion."

He thinks she's woken up, but she falls quiet once more, still clinging to him.

It's then he realizes he's lost.

There is no life for him without her in it, he knows, and he will do everything in his power to keep her safe and happy.

He's the first to wake the next morning, and he bites back a groan at the site that awaits him.

Sansa is still curled to him, hand on his chest beneath his shirt, but she's kicked the covers off and her night shift has ridden up almost to her hip.

Her long, beautifully toned leg is hiked up and thrown over his legs.

If he wanted he could reach out and run his hand up her creamy thigh.

He won't do that, of course, but it doesn't stop his very overactive imagination from running away with him.

His groin stirs, and he tries to will his mind elsewhere.

Sansa sighs and he feels her warm breath on his ear.

Tyrion bites back a groan has he becomes fully erect.

Beside him, Sansa starts to stir.

 _Shit._

He doesn't want her to see him in this state and start to worry about sharing a bed with him, but they are so entwined he can't get up and sneak away without waking her fully.

Her hand starts to stroke his chest as she had last night, and he feels himself twitch and strain against his small clothes.

"Good morning."

"Morning," he replies, surprised his voice works while she's unknowingly torturing him.

She turns her head and her hand pauses as she sees the hardness protruding against his clothing.

 _Fuck._

"Sansa," he says, trying to think of how to salvage this situation.

It's one thing when he physically responded to her on his lap, he thinks, and another for her to find him aching for her after simply sleeping side by side.

Before he can say anything more, her hand slides down his stomach and her fingers slip beneath the trim of his underwear.

He sucks in a sharp breath as he feels her delicate fingers close experimentally around his length.

Tyrion turns to meet her gaze and his mouth runs dry at the fire he finds there.

She tightens her grip around his cock, squeezing him lightly and Tyrion's head falls back as he moans.

The other night when she rode him and brought about both of their pleasure was great, but the layers of fabric between them had been almost painful in its torment.

But this, now, flesh to flesh, feeling her holding him is almost too much for him to bear after his years of celibacy.

His hips buck upward of their own accord, and she seems to understand what his body craves because she starts to rub her hand up and down his length, tightening and loosening her grasp as she does so.

It's inelegant and inexperienced, but Tyrion has never been more undone by the touch of another.

She pauses to pull his tunic up and waistband down to free him from his confines.

A brief look of apprehension passes over her features as she sees him fully, but it's gone in a flash and she determinedly reaches for him again.

"Sansa," he breathes heavily, "you don't… oh gods… you don't have to."

She gives him a sly smile.

"I want to," she insists, tightening her grip as she strokes him up and down.

Tyrion doesn't have the resolve to resist and lets his head fall back as he loses himself in her touch.

It doesn't take long before he spills his seed over her hand and his abdomen.

By the time Tyrion is able to catch his breath, Sansa has slipped from the bed and returned with a wet cloth to clean them both up.

He sits up and takes the cloth from her when she's done and cleans himself.

"Was that… okay?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.

"That was well beyond okay," he says. "But you needn't have done it."

"I wanted to," she says defiantly. "I… I like the sounds you make."

Her face is bright crimson at this admission and she looks away.

"It makes me feel… in control."

If he hadn't just spent himself, he knows he would be hard as a rock at her admission.

"One day, I'd like to hear you," he says without thinking.

She stiffens slightly, but doesn't scoot away from him.

"What would you do?" she asks quietly, "to make me… make those sounds?"

"Sansa—" he sighs, unsure if this is a good idea.

"Tell me."

"There are many things I would do… but I'd start by running my hands up your thighs," he tells her. "Slowly, gently, feeling every inch as I get closer to your center. I'd trace my fingers gently over—"

"Show me," she interrupts, eyes dark with lust and chest heaving.

"Sansa, I—"

"Please?"

She crawls closer to him and sits on her knees in front of him.

He toys with the hem of her night shift, unsure if giving her what she wants is truly what she needs.

Sensing his hesitation, Sansa pulls the garment over her head, leaving her naked before him.

Her eyes are so wide and pleading that he can't resist her.

Slowly, he reaches out and grazes her leg with the back of his hand.

She inhales sharply.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

She nods, but remains silent.

Tyrion gently draws patterns on her thighs, just giving her time to adjust to the feel of his hands. He can feel her begin to relax beneath his fingertips.

He reaches between her legs, still caressing her thighs and slowly moves his hand upwards just as he told her he would.

She tenses slightly and reaches a hand up to brace herself on his shoulder.

He pauses, but she looks at him and nods her head for him to continue.

Tyrion's hand continues its journey upwards, only pausing when he grazes her curls.

Sansa sucks in a sharp breath, but leans into his touch.

He runs one finger along her lips, almost teasingly, until she begins to rock her hips towards his hand.

"Tyrion," she murmurs, needing more.

He slips his finger into her folds to find her wet for him. She moans softly and he has to bite back his own groan as she tightens her grip on his shoulder.

He slides his finger up, searching, until he finds her sensitive bundle of nerves.

She cries out and bucks closer as he touches her.

He traces circles on her bud faster and faster until she is panting and moaning his name.

"Yes, Tyrion…"

She cries out her completion and her body sags against his. Her hand is still tight on his one shoulder, and her head rests on his other.

He kisses the top of her head.

"That was… gods," she pants incoherently.

After a moment she sits back up and lets her hand slide from his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asks, fearing a relapse.

"I'm fine. Wonderful actually. I wasn't sure I could do it. That I could let you— let anyone— touch me again. But, when you did, I just saw you. And I wasn't afraid."

"No one will ever hurt you again," Tyrion swears.

She stares at him steadily, before giving him a slight nod.

"When I'm here with you, I can actually believe that."

Sansa kisses him softly.

"We have a city to run," she reminds him. "We should probably get out of bed."

"If you insist."

Later that day, after running through her normal morning routine, Sansa has lunch with Brienne on a balcony overlooking the city.

"It's beautiful here," Sansa says, eyeing the horizon.

"It is, my lady," Brienne replies, "but are you happy? Is Lord Tyrion treating you kindly?"

If it were anyone else, Sansa might snap that it's none of their business, but it's Brienne, and she knows how much the woman worries for her.

"I _am_ happy here," she says, realizing it's true, "and my husband has been very kind to me."

 _Moreso than I had ever hoped._

As her thoughts drift to Tyrion she doesn't realize she's smiling softly, but Brienne notices and feels a weight lift from her chest.

When Brienne had first discovered Sansa and that boy, Theon, shivering, wet, and injured, she felt ashamed at having failed Lady Catelyn.

Her shame grew as she watched Sansa and worked out more and more of what that bastard Ramsey did to her.

Brienne is furious with herself for not cutting Littlefinger in half right there in that inn.

However, seeing Sansa now, smiling and content… healing… it eases her guilt if only a little.

"I am glad, my lady," Brienne tells her.

"You've done your duty, you know," Sansa says. "I'd understand if you wanted to return home. You fulfilled your promise to my mother."

"If you want me to go, my lady, I will. But, given the option, I would prefer to stay. I'm sworn to you, and will remain by your side, always, to protect you."

Sansa is moved by the other woman's devotion.

"I would like it if you stayed. I enjoy your company. And I feel safer with you around."

Almost as soon as she finishes speaking, a large explosion shakes the Great Pyramid.

Sansa slips from her chair and falls hard on the patio.

Brienne is by her side in an instant, blocking Sansa and looking around wildly.

Another explosion hits somewhere in the city, and a smaller vibration rocks through the pyramid.

"We're under attack!"

Brienne grabs Sansa by the arm and pulls her to her feet, ushering her quickly back into the Pyramid.

Brienne is torn over going in search of answers, or remaining in a defensible position.

The door swings open, banging loudly against the wall.

Brienne's sword is drawn before she even realizes who it is.

Tyrion races across the room to Sansa.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asks, eyes raking over her, looking for signs of damage.

"I'm fine, I'm okay," she reassures him. "What's happening?"

"It's the Slavers. We're under siege."

Sansa is sitting quietly in the war room, Brienne and Pod standing on either side of her, while Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Missandei debate what to do.

"You should never have trusted their word," Grey Worm is telling Tyrion.

"Casting blame will not help us now," Missandei counters.

There is another loud crash, this time from above them, and Sansa jumps to her feet.

Tyrion comes to her side, taking her hand reassuringly.

A noise from the patio draws all of their attention, and a collective shock runs through the room when they see the woman standing before them.

The Dragon Queen has returned.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Omg this season is giving me sooo many Sanrion feels!


	10. Chapter Ten

With the city still under attack, there is no time for introductions.

The Dragon Queen barely spares Sansa a glance before she launches into a plan of attack.

She's much smaller than Sansa had expected… and much more beautiful than the tales conveyed.

Her long silver hair glints like the finest silk in moonlight, and her violet eyes are intense and calculating as she discusses tactics.

The thing that draws Sansa's attention the most, though, is how often the Queen's eyes turn to Tyrion. She looks at him with respect, admiration, and a slight amount of gratitude.

Sansa isn't sure why her stomach tosses every time the pair share a glance.

After a couple hours of watching the others plan, Sansa starts to drift off in her seat.

She had wanted to help, but her limited knowledge of the city's layout had rendered her pretty unhelpful.

Tyrion comes to her, and places his hand on her arm to wake her.

"Let Brienne take you back to our room," he insists. "You need to rest. I promise I'll send for you if there is anything you can do to help."

Reluctantly, Sansa agrees.

She notices the Dragon Queen watching her, appraisingly, and Sansa acts without thinking,

She leans in and kisses Tyrion boldly on the lips in front of the entire room.

When she pulls back she sees him try to hide his shock, and offers him a warm smile before departing with Brienne.

"If you don't mind, my lady, I'd like to stay here with you," Brienne insists when they get to Sansa's room.

Her sworn sword looks so determined that Sansa doesn't bother trying to persuade her.

"That's fine, but you should probably rest as well."

"I doubt I could, my lady."

Sansa changes for bed and lies down, though she's doubtful she'll be able to sleep.

Her mind is too keyed up worrying about the siege, and her body is all too aware of the absence beside her.

Slumber finds her eventually, a few hours before dawn, but so do her nightmares.

" _My blushing bride, you didn't think I'd find you?"_

 _There's a figure in the dark, and though she strains to see she can't make them out. Not that it matters. She'd know his voice anywhere._

" _No… No, where's Tyrion?" she asks the darkness._

" _I don't like it when others touch my things without asking. The dwarf has been dealt with. You'll never see him again."_

 _A candle flares to life and it's then Sansa sees Ramsey's face. The flickering light bathing him in an eerie glow as he smiles maniacally._

Sansa wakes up screaming, and Brienne rushes to her side.

"My lady? Sansa… it's okay. You were having a nightmare. Shhh," Brienne tries to comfort her.

Sansa can't breath. Her chest is constricting. The room is too small.

Beside her, Brienne is digging through the bed stand.

"Drink this," she says, uncorking a small vial. "Shhh, drink this. It will help."

With Brienne's help Sansa manages to drink the contents of the vial. It's sweet and cloying, but familiar.

Slowly her breathing returns to normal and her eyes grow heavy.

"Tyrion," she murmurs as her head falls back on the pillow. "Protect him. Must… protect Tyrion."

Sometime after dawn Tyrion returns to his room to check in on Sansa and change. He's surprised to see her still in bed, less so at finding Brienne stationed by her side.

"I'm glad she managed to fall asleep," he says to Brienne.

He feels wrong-footed. Tyrion's never spent much time speaking to Brienne of Tarth.

"She will be asleep for a few more hours. Lady Sansa drifted off for a bit, but awoke violently from a nightmare. She was having a panic attack so I gave her a sleep aid."

Tyrion frowns and walks to Sansa's side of the bed, reaching out to gently hold her hand.

"It's been a while since she had a nightmare," he says, aware of the large woman studying him.

Turning to face Brienne, Tyrion tries to sound more confident than he feels.

"We're going down to speak to the Slavers," he tells her. "Please stay with Sansa. If anything happens to me… if Daenerys loses, get Sansa out of this city. Take all the gold you can and get her somewhere safe. Please."

"I am her sworn sword, my lord," she replies, "I would never let anything happen to her."

He nods, having expected her answer, but needing to hear it all the same.

After he ducks behind the divider to change, Tyrion pauses once more beside Sansa and leans in to kiss her cheek.

On his way out the door, Brienne stops him.

"My lord?"

"Yes?" he asks, turning back to face her.

"Stay safe out there… she cares for you a lot. You've been good for her, I think."

"She's been good for me as well. Thank you."

There's humming when Sansa wakes up. And a hand playing in her hair.

Her eyes flutter open, and she finds the room much brighter than she expected it to be.

Tyrion is next to her on the bed, looking down at her with a soft smile.

"Wh—what's going o—on?" she yawns.

"It's over," he tells her.

"What? How?"

Tyrion tells her about the meeting with the Slavers, and the Dragon Queen burning the Slaver's fleet and ending their resistance.

"How long was I asleep?" she asks, sitting up in the bed and looking around.

"It's almost time for dinner."

Sansa takes another look at the window and sees how low the sun has fallen.

"Daenerys would like us to eat with her."

Sansa feels panic starting to bubble in her stomach, and it must show on her face.

"Don't worry. She's going to love you as much as— as much as her people do."

She sees the color rising in his cheeks and wonders why, Tyrion doesn't embarrass easily.

"Let's find you something to wear, shall we?"

She and Tyrion walk hand in hand to join the Queen for dinner, and Sansa is pleased when they get there to find others present

Grey Worm, Missandei, and two men Sansa doesn't recognize are all there with the Queen. It seems she and Tyrion are the last to arrive.

She can feel the Queen's eyes on her as Tyrion pulls the chair out for Sansa to sit, and tries not to let the other woman's scrutiny intimidate her.

As the meal is served Daenerys tells the story of everything that happened since she flew away from the fighting pits.

Sansa has to admit it is an exciting tale.

Much to her relief, she is not called upon during dinner, though she manages to eat very little thanks to her nerves.

However when dessert is brought out, one of the servants stoops by Sansa's chair to speak with her.

"Lord Tyrion said you liked these, Haedar," the young man says, placing a plate of what smells like lemon cakes before her. "We did not know the exact recipe, but we hope you like them."

"Thank you so much, Oslo. They look delicious."

When Sansa looks back to the table she sees all eyes on her.

Tyrion reaches for her hand under the table, sensing her discomfort.

"Sansa has been a great help, my Queen," he says. "While Missandei, Grey Worm, and myself focused on keeping the city running, Lady Sansa oversaw the maintenance of life here in the Great Pyramid."

"Then I owe you my gratitude, Lady Sansa," the Queen says after a long pause.

"It was my pleasure, your Grace."

Oblivious to the sudden tension, Grey Worm starts talking about rotation plans for the Unsullied, and attention is drawn away from Sansa.

She's so relieved she manages to eat her dessert, and is pleasantly surprised by how close the dish resembles her favorite from home.

When the meal ends, Sansa is eager to retreat to her room with Tyrion, but the Queen has other plans.

"Everyone leave us," Daenerys commands. "I'd like to speak with Lady Sansa in private."

The others leave without hesitation, but Tyrion lingers.

" _Everyone,_ " she stresses again.

Tyrion nods and turns to leave, grazing his hand across Sansa's on his way out.

The Dragon Queen beckons Sansa to sit across from her near a crackling fire.

"Why are you here?" she asks, wasting no time.

"I came to join my husband," Sansa replies, keeping her chin held high.

"After fleeing another husband. One loyal to the Lannisters."

"He… R—Ramsey is a cruel, terrible person. And he isn't my husband. My marriage to him is not binding as I was already married."

Daenerys picks up a silver goblet and sips from it, all the while watching Sansa closely.

"Tyrion told me about your marriage," she says, setting the goblet back down.

 _No… she knows… she knows he didn't consummate._

"He told me you were both forced into it, that you didn't wish to marry him. Yet, here you are."

"I told you R—Ramsey is… he's a monster," Sansa says, chest tightening when she says his name.

"You escaped from him, though, and you came here. To join a husband you didn't want. Why? Why not go somewhere else?"

"Tyrion was always kind to me. He has never demanded anything I wasn't willing to give. The last time I truly felt safe was when I was with him. There was nowhere else for me to go. My house has been decimated. What family I may have left has been scattered in the wind. Tyrion is all I have."

Daenerys is quiet for a long time, and Sansa wonders if she's passed whatever test this is.

"This Ramsey Bolton, is currently holding the North?"

Sansa nods.

"And he's still looking for you?"

"Yes."

"I need allies in Westeros if I am ever to take the Iron throne, so I have one last question for you… why shouldn't I send you back to him as a peace offering?"

Sansa's heart nearly stops, and the room threatens to close in on her.

 _What? No. This can't be happeneing._

"I—I—"

"You, you," Daenerys says. "Why should I keep you?"

"I am… I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am the key to the North. It may be held by the Boltons right now, but the North remembers and the Boltons will never truly hold their allegiance."

The Queen nods, and prepares to speak but Sansa cuts her off.

"And if you send me away, Tyrion will follow. He won't just let me go. He will protect me, and you will lose him. You can't let that happen, can you? You know you need him. You wouldn't have had a city to return to if it weren't for him. Not to mention no one understands Westerosi politics better than my husband. If you ever hope to take the iron throne, you need Tyrion Lannister."

Sansa holds her breath, waiting for the fallout from her outburst. Instead of shouting or threats for her disrespect, Daenerys smiles at her.

"There's that Northern fire I've heard so much about. I do believe, Lady Stark, that you and I are going to get along quite well."

It takes all of Tyrion's self-control not to press his ear to the door and try to listen to the conversation between his wife and his queen.

After about twenty minutes of anxious pacing the door creaks open and Daenerys and Sansa walk out, arm in arm, smiling at one another.

He assumed they would get along, but actually seeing it before him is a huge relief.

"Thank you for speaking with me," Daenerys tells Sansa, walking her over to Tyrion. "I hope to hear more of your story soon."

"And I yours," Sansa replies.

The Queen bids them both goodnight, and Sansa and Tyrion return to their room.

"That seems like it went well," Tyrion notes. "It looked like it went well anyway. Did it… go well?"

"You know, you're quite adorable when you ramble."

"I prefer devilishly handsome, but I suppose I'll take adorable."

"Yes," Sansa says. "It went well. After we got past the part of her threatening to send me back to Ramsey."

Tyrion stiffens.

"She… She what? I would never let that happen, I swear to you—"

"Tyrion, I know. I don't think she meant it. She was testing me. I think I passed."

She sits down at the vanity and begins to untie her dress, preparing to change into a night shift.

"What did you say?" he asks, panicked.

"I told her if she sent me away, you would follow, and that she couldn't afford to lose you. I told her she'd never take the iron throne without your help."

When he doesn't reply Sansa turns around on her stool.

Tyrion is staring at her, eyes wide and lips parted as if he can't quite believe she's there.

"Tyrion—"

He's across the room in a flash, his hand cupping the back of her head as he pulls her close, his lips swallowing her words as he kisses her fiercely.

Shock gives way to desire and Sansa kisses him back, wrapping her arms around him.

This isn't a soft, leisurely kiss. It's hard and searching; teeth and want.

Tyrion nips her lower lip and Sansa gasps in pleasure.

He pulls back suddenly, mistaking her noise.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, out of breath. "I shouldn't have... I know you've been through so much. I don't want to—"

"Tyrion," Sansa interrupts, "it's okay. I just feel you."


End file.
